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STOWE  NOTES 
LETTERS  AND  VERSES 


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Edward  Martin  Taber  at  Stowe 


STOWE  NOTES 

LETTERS  AND  VERSES 


BY 

EDWARD  MARTIN  TABER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
I9I3 


Copyright,  1913,  by 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


CONTENTS 


Stowe  Notes,  1890-1893:  PAGE 

January  3 

February 20 

March 32 

April 43 

May 48 

July 59 

August 61 

October 63 

November 64 

December 68 

Extracts  from  Note-Books,  1887-1888: 

The  South 85 

Vermont  (June  to  September) 112 

The  Adirondacks 132 

New  York 149 

Vermont  (October) 179 

Fragments 189 

Extracts  from  Letters,  1882-1896 215 

Verses 319 

V 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Edward  Martin  Taber  at  Stowe.  (From  photograph) 

Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Mount  Mansfield  (Unfinished).  Painted  in  1895  • • 3 

A February  Afternoon  (Hogback  in  Distance). 

Painted  in  1894 20 

Lingering  Snow  (Looking  North).  Painted  in  1893  . 32 

Hemlock-Spruce  (Late  Spring).  Painted  in  1892  . . 43 

June.  Painted  in  1890 59 

Hogback  at  Sunset.  Painted  in  1895 68 

Rosebud  (Pencil  Drawing) 85 

> Pansy  (Pencil  drawing) 104 

Narcissus  (Pencil  drawing)  112 

Distant  Wood,  Sapling  in  Foreground  (Pencil  drawing)  114 

Pansies  (Pencil  drawing) 132 

Carnations  (Pencil  drawing) 149 

Carnations  (Two  pencil  drawings) 172 

Milkweed  (Pencil  drawing) 179 

Yellow  Birch  in  Hemlock  Stump  (Pencil  drawing)  . 181 

Beech  Tree  (Pencil  drawing) 183 

Study  of  Birch  Tree  Trunk  (Pencil  drawing)  . . . 187 

Tragic  Mask  (Pencil  drawing) 189 

Drawings  in  Pencil  and  Pen-and-Ink 212 

Alice  Pyncheon.  Hawthorne  (Pencil  drawing) 

vii 


viii  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Man  with  Sword.  Man  Seated  (Two  pencil  sketches) 

“The  Tinder  Box,”  Hans  Andersen  (Pencil  drawing) 

“The  Swineherd,”  Hans  Andersen  (Pencil  drawing) 

Six  Illustrations  from  Red  Riding  Hood  (Pen-and-ink) 
Dedication 
The  Departure 

Red  Riding  Hood  meeting  Wolf 

Red  Riding  Hood  knocking  at  Grandmother’s  door 

Hunter  killing  Wolf 

The  Return.  The  Account 

Two  Pencil  sketches  from  “Twelfth  Night,”  Sir  Toby 
Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek 
Two  Pencil  sketches  from  “Twelfth  Night,”  Sir  Toby 
Belch,  Maria 

Head  of  Girl  in  Wind  (Pencil  sketch) 

The  Pied  Piper  (Pencil  sketch) 

Nude  (Pencil  drawing) 

Romeo  (Pen-and-ink) 

Woman  with  Basket  (Pencil  drawing) 

Seated  Woman  (Pencil  drawing) 

Old  Orchard  in  Nantucket.  Painted  in  1882  . . . 215 

Six  Illustrations  from  “Cinderella”  (Pen-and-ink)  . 218 

Spray  of  Holly 
Introduction.  The  Trying-on 
The  Conjuring.  The  Proclamation 
Children  at  the  play 
“Cinderella  hears  the  clock  strike” 

“Cinderella  taking  her  call” 


Luna  Moth  (Pencil  drawing) 220 

Rose  (Pencil  drawing) 222 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  ix 

FACING  PAGE 

Winter  Costume  at  Stowe  (Pen-and-ink  sketch  in  Letter)  224 
Costumes  at  Grist  Mill  (Water-color  sketch  in  Letter)  . 226 

Collie  Puppy  Asleep.  Toby  on  Fox  Robe  (Two  pencil 

drawings) 232 

Canadian  Mare  (Pencil  drawing) 234 

Collie  Dog  (Pencil  drawing) 236 

“The  French  Teamster”  (Water-color  sketch  in  Letter)  238 

“One  of  the  Wood  Choppers”  (Water-color  sketch  in 

Letter)  240 

Three  Pencil  Sketches  of  Toby 254 

Jack  of  all  Trades.  Devils  of  Procrastination  and 

Delay  (Pen-and-ink  sketches  in  Letter) 256 

The  Colts.  Young  Stallion  (Two  pencil  sketches)  . . 275 

Audrey  (Pencil  drawing) 276 

Tim.  Toby  (Two  pencil  sketches  of  dogs) 288 

Pencil  Sketch  of  Horses  for  Mount  Mansfield  Picture  290 
Angel  with  Harp  (Pencil  drawing)  319 


EDITOR’S  PREFACE 


The  author  of  these  Notes,  Edward  Martin  Taber, 
was  born  on  Staten  Island,  July  21,  1863.  As  a youth 
he  showed  his  gift  for  painting,  but  on  account  of  ill 
health  studied  only  a few  months,  with  Abbott  Thayer. 
In  1887,  after  a journey  to  Europe  and  short  trips  to  the 
South  and  to  the  Adirondacks  for  his  health,  he  was 
exiled  from  New  York,  as  his  only  chance  for  life,  and 
chose  Stowe,  Vermont,  as  his  home,  where,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  or  two  brief  intervals,  he  lived  to  within  a 
few  months  of  his  death.  He  died  on  September  9,  1896, 
at  Washington,  Connecticut. 

His  frail  health  made  continuous  work  impossible, 
but  in  the  almost  arctic  winters  of  northern  Vermont 
he  finished  a number  of  paintings.  These  and  many 
sketches  in  oil  and  pencil,  together  with  his  Notes  and 
literary  fragments,  constitute  his  life’s  work;  but  those 
who  knew  his  singularly  just  and  discriminating  spirit 
realize  that  this  visible  accomplishment  is  but  part  of 
what  he  achieved;  for  in  the  solitude  of  his  life,  under 
the  suffering  that  was  his  portion,  striving  with  undevi- 
ating devotion  to  truth  for  his  ideal,  he  developed  a 
character  that  is  an  undying  possession  to  those  who 
knew  him. 

In  one  of  his  note-books  I find  these  words:  “We 
built  a fire  in  the  parlor;  it  shone  cheerily;  it  became  the 


XI 


PREFACE 


xii 

centre  and  gathering-point  of  the  house.  The  building 
that  had  before  been  a shelter,  a soulless  tenement, 
became  a home,  in  virtue  of  that  sacred  flame.5’  So  it 
was  with  him;  he  was  the  centre  of  his  little  circle,  his 
was  its  vivifying  spirit.  Carlyle  has  said  that  “there  is 
no  life  of  a man,  faithfully  recorded,  but  is  a heroic 
poem  of  its  kind,  rhymed  or  unrhymed.”  With  the  hope 
that  some  glimpses  of  this  short  life,  lived  under  such 
severe  and  disheartening  restrictions,  may  give  to  others  a 
part  of  the  inspiration  it  gave  to  his  friends,  I have  added 
to  the  Stowe  Notes  and  Verses  some  few  personal  records 
and  letters,  fragmentary  as  they  necessarily  are,  and  elu- 
sive as  the  gentle  nature  they  reflect  must  remain. 

His  delicate  perception  and  sensitiveness  to  all  as- 
pects of  beauty  show  especially  in  his  pencil  sketches, 
“executed  with  a conscientiousness  almost  reverential, 
as  though  the  intricate  wonder  of  construction  and  the 
fragrant  daintiness  of  rose  and  carnation  were  sacred 
in  his  imagination,”  but  everything  he  touched  bears 
witness  to  his  love  for  Nature;  humbly,  reverently  he 
transcribed  her — his  beloved  North  Countrie,  his 
adopted  home.  George  de  Forest  Brush  writes  of  these 
oil  paintings : “ ‘Pictures/  says  Emerson,  ‘should  not  be 
picturesque.  I demand  that  they  domesticate  me/  This 
is  the  feeling  I have  when  I look  on  these  canvases — 
these  pines  casting  their  blue  shadows  on  the  snow,  the 
sparkling  birches  and  clear-cut  mountain  lines,  seem  to 
bring  me  home  to  the  days  when  our  vision  was  un- 
affected by  art,  knowledge,  and  foreign  travel,  when 
the  landscape  seen  from  our  father’s  house  in  the  clear 
December  air  filled  us  with  a sensation  akin  to  human 


PREFACE 


xiii 

affection.  More  than  this,  the  faithfulness  with  which 
these  details  are  wrought  is  the  outcome  of  the  artist’s 
love  for  the  facts,  and  the  impression  of  beauty  that 
they  give  is  enduring  . . . they  are  the  old  rare  kind 
wrought  in  faithfulness  and  affection.”  And  Abbott 
Thayer  adds:  “Taber  seems  to  me  to  have  given  himself 
to  Nature  more  trustfully  than  almost  any  other  man. 
His  best  landscapes  thrill  one  with  their  look  of  having 
been  transported  pure  to  the  canvas  from  the  beautiful 
austere  scene  before  him.  His  exquisite  power  of  sight 
brought  him  so  close  to  those  wild  valleys  that  no  tradi- 
tion had  come  between  him  and  their  beauty,  and  it  ran 
through  him  on  to  the  canvas,  changed  only  in  that  look 
of  being  recognized.”  But  his  keen  perception  looked 
through  and  beyond  the  exquisite  revelations  of  the 
Universe  he  saw,  into  the  soul  of  the  Beauty  he  wor- 
shipped ; and  out  of  that  deeper  vision,  all  unconsciously, 
he  wrought  his  own  character. 


F.  T.  H. 


INTRODUCTION 


These  fragments  will  take  their  place  in  the  world’s 
precious  store  of  great  men’s  journals,  of  all  literature 
perhaps  the  most  thrilling. 

Between  these  thin  leaves  await  us  the  cool  shades, 
not  only  of  the  forests  Taber  loved,  but  of  his  own  brave 
and  peaceful  heart.  His  austerely  beautiful  portraits 
of  the  scenery  in  which  he  passed  the  last  years  of  his 
life,  and  the  following  most  precious  records  of  what 
was  passing  in  his  soul  during  the  same  period,  both  of 
these,  however  fragmentary,  achieved  under  the  heavy 
burden  of  illness,  show  faculties  of  the  first  order.  His 
exquisite  perceptions  come  to  us  as  clear  of  his  earthly 
vicissitudes  as  violets  or  crystals  out  of  the  sod. 

Emerson’s  closing  words  upon  Thoreau’s  death  in- 
sist upon  associating  themselves  with  Taber: 

“The  country  knows  not  yet,  or  in  the  least  part,  how 
great  a son  it  has  lost.  It  seems  an  injury  that  he  should 
leave  in  the  midst  of  his  broken  task,  which  none  else  can 
finish — a kind  of  indignity  to  so  noble  a soul,  that  it 
should  depart  out  of  Nature  before  he  has  been  really 
shown  to  his  peers  for  what  he  is.  But  he,  at  least,  is 
content.  His  soul  was  made  for  the  noblest  society;  he 
had  in  a short  life  exhausted  the  capabilities  of  this 
world;  wherever  there  is  knowledge,  wherever  there  is 
virtue,  wherever  there  is  beauty,  he  will  find  a home.” 

Abbott  H.  Thayer 


XV 


STOWE  NOTES 
i 890-1 893 


Mount  Mansfield 


JANUARY 


Even  in  the  calmest  summer  day,  or  moonlight 
night,  or  still  autumn  afternoon,  I have  never,  it  seems 
to  me,  seen  the  landscape  more  tranquil  The  hues  are 
soft  and  harmonious;  all  that  was  crude  and  harsh  in 
color  has  been  gradually  eliminated.  The  raw  tints 
of  green  in  the  winter  fields  have  changed  to  a glowing, 
subdued  orange. 

The  woods  no  longer  form  a contrast,  but  blend 
quietly  into  the  scene.  The  Mountain,*  under  a pale 
film-spread  sky,  rising  a ponderous  slaty-blue  mass  above 
the  warm-tinted  valley,  gives  a fine  effect  of  altitude. 
The  snow  that  remains  in  the  rocky  crevices,  now  that 
it  is  melted  in  the  valley  below,  suggests  alpine  heights. 
This  effect  is  enhanced  by  what  little  snow  remains 
clinging  among  the  woods  on  the  side ; it  is  formed  into 
perpendicular  whitish  streaks,  and  conveys  an  impres- 
sion of  successive  and  precipitous  cliffs. 

A column  of  blue  smoke  rises  on  Luce’s  Hill,  and 
mounts  up,  swayed  but  not  dispersed  by  the  almost  im- 
perceptible breeze  from  the  northwest. 

Though  the  grasses  bend,  they  give  no  sound.  There 
is  absolute  stillness,  except  for  the  distant  rumble  of 
wagons  on  the  iron-rutted  road. 

Coming  home  through  the  pasture,  I notice  the  brook 

* “ The  Mountain  ” always  means  Mansfield. 


3 


4 


STOWE  NOTES 


has  a broken  icy  border,  opaque  and  frosty,  except  at 
the  inner  edge  washed  by  the  running  water,  where  it 
sparkles  like  tinsel. 

Walk  in  the  afternoon.  A strong  south  wind  (which 
they  say  is  more  potent  to  melt  snow  than  the  sun) ; a 
moist  feeling  in  the  air,  like  an  approaching  summer 
rain. 

Rain  began  to  fall  heavily  at  about  four  p.m. 

I think  I never  saw  moonlight  so  brilliant  as  that 
to-night : it  is  subdued  day. 

This  morning  and  almost  all  day  a fine  snow  has  been 
falling,  beautiful  crystals,  floating  down  sometimes 
singly,  sometimes  two  or  three  together. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a warm  golden  light  over  the 
bare  woods  and  yellow  fields  of  Sterling. 

To-  day  out  walking  in  the  rocky  west  pasture.  I 
wear  sheepskin  boots  with  thick  leather  soles— very 
agreeable  to  walk  in — like  moccasins.  Particularly  I 
enjoy  treading  on  the  mossy  rocks,  where  the  crisp  soft 
lichens  form  a delightful  carpet.  Their  colors  come  out 
well  to-day,  in  this  even,  subdued  light.  Pale  green, 
lilac,  dark  green,  bronze-tinted,  and  orange. 

The  conical  tufts  of  the  sumach  are  a conspicuous 
red — a glowing  maroon — a rusty  crimson.  These  are 
the  stag-horn  sumach  with  the  black  downy  branches. 

The  night  of  the  eighth  was  windy  and  excessively 
cold.  From  my  window,  looking  up  the  slope  of  the  hill, 


JANUARY 


5 


I see  the  wind  lifting  the  fine  snow  like  smoke,  and  blow- 
ing it  across  the  meadows.  In  the  shadowed  and  strug- 
gling moonlight  it  rises  in  waves,  and  sweeps  like  a 
procession  of  phantoms  along  the  windy  ridge.  The 
little  house,  the  orchard,  and  the  pine  near  the  crest  are 
enveloped  and  almost  lost  in  the  white  gust.  The  solid 
features  of  the  scene  appear  like  rocks  smothered  in 
spray.  There  is  a misty  sparkle  of  the  flying  snow  along 
the  ridge-pole  of  the  barn. 

The  wind  is  lamentably  loud. 

It  was  zero  at  eight  o’clock,  six  degrees  at  two  p.m., 
zero  at  four  p.m.  All  day  long  there  was  a kind  of  white 
mist  on  the  horizon,  somewhat  like  a hot  summer  haze. 

To-day  it  is  snowing — a soft  fall  of  innumerable  and 
visibly  beautiful  crystals,  forming  a coating  as  light  and 
soft  as  down. 

Wind  in  the  northwest  or  north.  At  eight  o’clock 
two  degrees,  at  twelve  o’clock  five  degrees. 

Snowing. 

This  morning  a flock  of  snow  buntings  in  the  garden, 
running  about  in  the  loose  snow  with  the  toddling 
motion  of  pigeons.  Not  so  white  as  I expected  to  see 
them ; the  males  black  and  white,  more  distinctly  marked 
than  females,  but  with  brownish  tinge  on  top  of  head. 
As  they  took  flight,  it  was  with  a chattering  outcry,  a 
loud  twittering. 

Later  several  chickadees,  on  swift  wings,  darting 
among  the  bare  trees,  and  lisping  their  cheery  note. 

The  thermometer  is  at  about  twenty-four  degrees 
(noon) ; the  air  is  soft;  the  snow  falls  in  minute  flakes, 


6 


STOWE  NOTES 


but  though  light,  is  not  very  dry.  There  is  a faint  wind 
from  the  southwest,  not  enough  to  stir  the  pine  or  shake 
down  the  accumulating  snow;  but  it  gives  direction  to 
the  falling  flakes,  moving  them  northeasterly. 

The  inscrutable  silence,  the  mystery  of  winter ! 
Through  the  muffled  air  comes  the  scream  of  blue  jays. 
The  white  fields  and  cloudy  woods  fade  into  the  sky.  I 
notice  the  exquisite  detail  of  lichens  on  the  boughs  of 
the  apple  trees,  gray  and  gold,  sometimes  orange  or  red- 
gold.  It  is  amusing  to  brush  the  snow  from  the  fences 
and  beneath  it  find  on  the  weather-beaten  boards  the 
persistent  green  of  these  humble  plants.  They  are 
arranged  with  a decorative  charm  of  position  and  color. 
Blue-gray  lichens  will  be  relieved  by  a touch  of  pea-green 
or  olive,  or  occasionally  the  gray  and  gold  tints  that  are 
conspicuous  on  the  apple  trees.  There  is  something 
amusingly  artificial  about  these  crisp  green  disks. 

This  morning  I noticed  some  redpolls  flying  near  the 
house.  They  utter  a sweet  note,  a long-drawn  “twee” — 
several  in  succession,  as  a canary  often  does  in  intro- 
ductory fashion  before  breaking  into  song.  It  seems  to 
say,  “Listen,  listen,  listen!”  With  the  caged  bird  it  is  a 
touching  prelude,  infinitely  pathetic;  but  there  is  some- 
thing sweet  and  cheery  in  the  note  uttered  in  freedom. 
This  reminds  me  that  in  all  bird  notes,  even  the  most 
melancholy,  as  the  wood  pewee’s  and  some  phases  of  the 
hermit  thrush’s  song,  there  is  nevertheless  a cheerful 
intimation.  It  is  a tone  that  belongs  to  their  free  condi- 
tion. The  pewee  seems  to  say,  “I  am  sad — but  oh,  what 
sweet  sadness !” 


JANUARY 


7 


I saw  a flock  of  birds  fly  across  the  garden— one  lit 
on  a bean-pole,  with  a cry  very  harsh  and  peculiar.  They 
all  took  flight  with  a chattering  like  the  snow  buntings. 
I could  not  see  them  well,  as  they  flew  against  the  sun, 
but  I think  they  were  a flock  of  these  birds. 

It  has  been  snowing  intermittently  all  day ; this  morn- 
ing it  was  about  thirty  degrees ; much  slush. 

The  wind  at  ten  a.m.  was  blowing  from  the  south,  at 
noon  from  the  east,  at  three  p.m.  from  the  southwest, 
bringing  a heavy  snow-storm — large  whirling  flakes  that 
came  dancing  against  the  western  windows,  white 
against  the  earth,  dusky  spots  out  of  the  sky. 

I walked  in  the  west  pasture.  I found  the  brook 
running  half-hidden  under  snow-coated  rotten  ice.  I 
amused  myself  by  breaking  this  crust  and  forming  a 
miniature  ice-dam.  The  harsh  gurgle  of  the  cascade 
was  silenced ; the  water,  with  abated  voice,  seemed  con- 
spiring to  seek  some  lower  and  secret  exit. 

The  pasture  presents  a more  even  surface,  now  the 
snow  is  drifted  into  the  hollows. 

I notice  the  stems  of  raspberry  conspicuous  upon  the 
snow. 

I sat  down  to  rest  under  the  white  pine ; at  a rod  or 
two  distant,  as  I drew  toward  it,  I was  aware  of  its 
singing.  It  is  said  our  civilization  has  not  improved 
on  the  wildness  of  the  Indian  in  respect  of  the  musical 
quality  in  language.  The  Iroquois  tongue  is  more  rudi- 
mentary than  the  English,  perhaps  on  that  account  more 
musical;  but  the  famed  music  of  the  Onondaga  I feel 
sure  is  surpassed  by  the  aboriginal  conifer  language — 
which  is  the  earliest  voice  of  Nature. 


8 


STOWE  NOTES 


The  pine  speaks,  solus;  the  little  spruces  that  stand 
darkly  at  his  feet  seem  to  listen.  From  time  to  time  they 
move  their  branches,  and  a faint  sigh  passes  among 
them.  Even  of  the  snowflakes  whirling  by,  it  seems  as 
if  they  lingered  in  the  air,  and  their  natural  silence  was 
self-imposed. 

If  any  human  being  were  gifted  with  such  tones,  so 
varied,  so  passionate,  so  deep,  so  gentle,  he  could  move 
men  as  a river  carries  a leaf.  An  actor  with  such  power ! 

The  white  pine  is  a king  in  eloquence,  a wizard  in 
ventriloquism.  Sometimes  his  voice  is  loud,  surging  in 
my  ears;  it  lessens,  it  fades,  it  seems  to  speak  from 
indefinable  distance. 

There  is  a fine  sibilant  tone  in  the  louder  and  higher 
notes,  and  yet  there  is  a depth  to  them  that  the  adjective 
fails  to  touch.  I have  never  attached  much  meaning  to 
the  phrase  ‘The  soughing  as  of  the  wind,”  but  it  seems 
adequately  to  describe  this  sound. 

The  pine  falls  to  silence,  and  then  a low  and  distant 
moan,  the  rumble  of  the  wind  in  the  encircling  woods, 
is  audible.  The  wind  soughs  in  the  tree,  grows  loud, 
and  dies;  it  reminds  me  of  a great  orchestra,  when  on 
the  inarticulate  grumbling  of  the  basses  swells  the  eerie 
plaint  of  violins. 

The  snow  packs  so  readily  that  I can  walk  without 
much  difficulty  up  and  down  the  sides  of  boulders,  where 
formerly  I could  hardly  find  footing. 

It  was  amusing  to  scale  such  an  eminence  and  see 
below  me  the  winding  course  of  my  footprints.  Going 
down  I could  not  tell  how  steep  had  been  the  inclines 
I traversed,  on  account  of  the  even,  white  surface  pre- 


JANUARY 


9 


sented  to  my  eye.  It  was  only  when  I reached  the 
bottom,  looking  back  at  my  footprints,  that  I could  form 
any  idea.  Finally  with  little  difficulty,  and  slipping  but 
slightly,  I descended  the  perpendicular  face  of  a boulder 
about  twenty  feet  high. 

The  long  tassels  of  the  pine  do  not  hold  the  snow 
so  naturally  or  in  such  quantity  as  the  stiff  spruce  leaves. 
Of  these,  some  diminutive  trees  two  to  three  feet  high 
have  the  appearance  of  monstrous  crystals,  absolutely 
white  from  my  three  feet  vantage,  except  that  along  the 
edge  of  each  twig  there  is  the  needle-etched  outline. 

The  wind  shifted  toward  the  north  at  about  five 
o’clock,  making  the  entire  circuit  of  the  compass,  with 
the  exception  of  the  northeast  quarter,  within  twelve 
hours. 

It  is  clear  and  very  cold,  about  four  degrees,  but  there 
is  no  wind.  I tried  my  mare  with  sleigh-bells  in  the 
morning.  The  jingling  seemed  greatly  to  exhilarate 
her. 

Beyond  the  village,  on  the  Mountain  road,  I meet 
numerous  lumber  sledges  carrying  large  spruce  logs 
chained  together— the  aboriginal  giant  brought  captive 
from  his  native  mountains.  It  is  the  first  opportunity 
the  lumbermen  have  had  to  transport  unsawed  timber. 

The  sky  is  soft  like  a summer  sky:  there  is  none  of 
the  cold  sparkle  of  winter  in  it;  the  clouds  toward  the 
north  are  faintly  pink-tinged. 

The  Mountain  during  the  morning  was  very  white, 
but  at  sunset,  the  light  being  behind  it,  it  lost  much  of 


10 


STOWE  NOTES 


its  hoary  aspect ; and  the  Hogback,  on  the  east,  became 
a ridge  of  glistening  silver. 

A clear  cold-hued  sunset,  against  which  Camel’s 
Hump  stood  in  isolated  beauty.  Its  altitude  is  imposing; 
it  lifts  itself  skyward  with  a grand  and  powerful  mo- 
tion; it  shares  with  Mansfield  the  glory  of  the  landscape; 
the  southern  hills  do  it  homage.  How  happy  the  coun- 
try that  can  claim  two  such  noble  mountains ; how  happy 
the  eye  that  includes  them  in  a single  glance ! 

Returning  home  this  afternoon,  over  the  crest  of  the 
hill  eastward,  I noticed  the  northern  mountains,  the 
undulating  line  behind  Eden,  flushed  by  the  sunset,  the 
shadows  purple,  the  snowy  ridge  pink  and  losing  its  out- 
line in  the  sky.  These  hills  seemed  actual  clouds,  resting 
on  the  horizon. 

I broke  an  icicle  twenty-nine  inches  long  off  the  rear 
veranda.  I set  it  upright  on  the  stone  fence  opposite  the 
house ; the  sunset  tinged  it  golden.  It  shone  a clear  cold 
gleam  against  the  dull  snow. 

This  morning  there  is  a beautiful  crystallization  on 
the  boughs  of  trees,  fences,  etc.,  a white  bloom,  an  in- 
finity of  minute  plumy  crystals.  The  stone  fence,  the 
surface  of  the  snow,  everything,  seems  to  bear  this 
wintry  foliage.  Last  evening  was  mild,  possibly  below 
freezing,  and  the  sudden  fall  of  the  temperature  (twen- 
ty-two degrees  at  ten  a.m. ) may  have  occasioned  this. 

There  are  fitful  gleams  of  sunlight  and  shadows 
trailing  westward  over  the  snow.  The  base  of  the 
Mountain  is  lost  in  a purple  haze,  but  the  profile  shines 
palely,  elevated  high  above  the  cloudy  horizon.  Its 
aspect  is  awfully  impressive. 


JANUARY 


ii 


It  is  a mosaic  sky. 

The  jays  have  a comic  aspect— a kind  of  goblin  look, 
with  their  pointed  caps  and  long  noses. 

In  the  afternoon,  drove  around  by  Gold  Brook.  We 
descended  into  a sheltered  and  woody  spot  on  the  north 
side  of  the  hill.  It  was  a fall  out  of  the  familiar  world 
into  the  phenomena  of  Fairyland.  Every  twig  was 
white  with  snow,  every  stalk  and  weed  stood  a branch- 
ing crystal.  It  was  like  a plunge  under  the  ocean  into 
the  forests  of  coral.  So  strange  it  was,  and  so  beautiful ! 
Or  might  it  not  have  been  a glimpse  at  a scene  earlier 
than  the  carboniferous  period  presented— a fantastic 
variation  of  crystalline  forms  ? 

The  brook  at  this  point  makes  a bend  toward  the 
road,  and  the  eye,  following  the  curve,  sees  the  dark 
stream,  clogged  with  green  ice  and  snow-bordered,  dis- 
appear behind  a boulder  hoary  with  snow  and  icicles. 

Coming  home  about  half  an  hour  before  sunset,  I 
noticed  a magenta  flush  along  the  summit  of  a snowy 
mound. 

The  morning  was  cloudy,  but  at  eleven  o'clock  the 
clouds  broke  in  the  northwest,  and  sunshine  followed. 
A slight  southwesterly  wind  in  the  afternoon. 

Walking  in  the  west  pasture,  and  resting  under  the 
white  pine. 

When  I last  walked  here,  in  a snow-storm,  I was 
struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  snow-powdered  foliage  of 
the  spruces;  the  more  heavily  coated,  the  more  beauti- 
ful it  appeared  to  me.  I remember  shaking  the  snow 


12 


STOWE  NOTES 


from  a bough,  to  contrast  it  with  its  snowy  neighbors, 
and  giving  my  verdict  in  favor  of  the  latter.  To-day, 
forgetful  of  yesterday’s  conclusions,  I found  myself  re- 
marking particularly  the  beauty  and  vividness  of  these 
evergreens,  now  disencumbered  of  snow. 

Nature  has  no  degrees  of  beauty;  in  the  supposition 
of  the  contrary  we  are  governed  by  our  own  degrees  of 
appreciation.  Nature  in  all  her  aspects  is  complete 
beauty.  This  is  trite,  but  in  making  the  statement  it  is 
common  to  attribute  to  Nature  an  unsympathetic  inevi- 
tableness. This  is,  I think,  no  less  partial.  Nature  is 
debonair.  She  has  comfort  for  whoever  can  disembar- 
rass himself  of  egotism  sufficiently  to  accept  it.  Hers  is 
an  undistinguishing  charity.  She  does  not  stand  aloof 
waiting  the  approach  of  the  deserving;  but  how  generally 
and  in  how  many  sweet  and  subtle  ways  she  offers  con- 
solation ! 

The  velvety  red  cones  of  the  sumach  are  beautiful 
against  the  exquisite  blue  of  the  sky,  and  lower  the  green 
of  the  spruces.  They  have  a military  suggestion — the 
red  cockade. 

Especially  do  I delight  in  looking  northward  on  the 
shining  winter  landscape. 

The  Pilgrims,*  beyond  a cloudy  patch  of  red  maple 
saplings,  rise  to  a seemingly  great  height.  They  are 
motionless;  they  seem,  in  common  with  all  the  features 
of  the  scene,  to  be  attentive  to  the  prompting  of  a con- 
trolling and  sublime  presence — to  look  for  inspiration  to 
the  Mountain,  the  crowning  and  presiding  glory  of  the 
landscape.  That  portion  hidden  by  interposing  ridges 

* A group  of  maples  on  a hill. 


JANUARY 


13 


from  a direct  communication  seems,  in  its  serenity,  to  be 
conscious  of  this  majestic  vicinity. 

While  I stood  quite  motionless  looking  at  the  land- 
scape, I heard  the  lisp  and  the  “day-day-day”  of  a tit- 
mouse rapidly  approaching.  The  neat  little  buif -breasted 
fellow  swept  so  close  to  me  that  I could  hear  the  sharp 
sibilant  whir  of  his  wings. 

His  excess  of  good  spirits  seemed  to  make  him  rest- 
less. He  lit  for  an  instant  on  a sumach  near  at  hand,  and 
again  in  passing  made  an  inclination  toward  me,  as  if  he 
were  half  disposed  to  investigate  a new  quality  of  stump. 

I watched  his  skipping  flight  for  some  little  time,  and 
long  after  he  had  disappeared  I could  hear  his  elastic 
chip  and  his  hoarse  little  “day-day-day.” 

Although  he  is  less  strictly  a winter  bird  than  the 
redpolls,  he  seems  more  at  home.  I never  see  him  hunt- 
ing the  stable-yard,  the  house,  and  the  garden,  as  is  their 
custom;  he  gets  his  living  quite  independent  of  the 
farmer,  flitting  about  the  pastures  and  hugging  the 
windy  side  of  the  woods. 

The  agitated  twittering  of  the  redpolls,  and  the  hud- 
dled flocks  in  which  they  invariably  move,  suggest  a 
want  of  confidence,  whereas  he  speaks  in  the  cheeriest 
accents,  and  flies  alone  and  undaunted. 

We  collected  some  pine  cones,  and  used  them  to  per- 
fume the  sitting-room,  placing  them  on  the  top  of  the 
stove.  Some  we  burned  in  the  stove,  which  is  an  open 
one.  The  scales  glowed  like  red-hot  copper;  sometimes 
they  were  tipped  with  a fiery  rim.  Without  diminution 
or  loss  of  form,  they  turned  from  copper  to  silver,  and 
finally  collapsed,  a filmy  ash. 


14 


STOWE  NOTES 


In  the  afternoon  the  wind  dropped.  As  in  the  pre- 
vious very  cold  and  windy  day,  I notice  a haze  on  the 
horizon.  At  about  four  o’clock  this  became  southward 
a golden  mist. 

I went  out  just  before  sunset  to  a rocky  knoll  north 
of  the  farm,  in  order  to  have  an  unbroken  view  of  the  sky. 

Beyond  the  ragged  tops  of  the  sugar- wood  (north) 
lay  rosy  clouds.  The  hills  were  of  a delicate  rose-purple, 
Mount  Mansfield  a mass  of  vapors;  a heavy  cloud  like  a 
snow-drift  overlaid  and  smothered  the  Mountain  from 
crown  to  base.  This  was  opal-tinted. 

The  outlines  of  the  mountains  south  and  southwest- 
ward  were  softened  and  blurred  by  this  singular  rosy 
haze;  the  hills  were  as  soft  as  when  they  bore  their  sum- 
mer foliage.  Camel’s  Hump,  like  the  Mountain,  is 
hidden  in  a purple  cloud. 

What  earthly  spectacle  can  rival  in  solemnity  and 
mystery  mountains  thus  cloud-obscured?  The  Holy 
Spirit  in  the  form  of  a dove,  descending  upon  the  elect. 
Dove-hued,  white,  and  opalescent,  the  clouds  settle  on 
the  mountains,  that,  separated  from  the  earth  by  this 
interposition  of  vapors,  are  caught  up  into  a celestial 
atmosphere. 

Later,  on  the  embers  of  this  sunset,  the  crescent  moon 
appears,  a cold  scimitar. 

A bleak  day,  but  windless.  The  sky  a uniform  gray 
cloud. 

A jay,  shooting  between  an  apple  tree  and  the  corn- 
bin,  establishes  a color  relation  with  the  distant  slaty-blue 
hills. 


JANUARY 


15 


Yesterday,  coming  up  from  the  swamp,  out  of  a 
gloomy  hollow,  to  the  slope  of  the  pasture,  over  which 
was  the  pale  green  evening  sky  and  light  rose-tinted 
clouds,  I saw  a small  flock  of  snow  buntings,  some  dozen 
or  so.  They  flew  low,  sweeping  up  from  the  meadows  on 
the  opposite  slope,  and  as  they  passed,  almost  over  my 
head,  I noticed  how  white  they  were  beneath,  and  felt 
(as  I always  do  when  I see  them)  that  they  must  be  some 
kin  to  sea  birds.  Certainly  they  fly  on  the  edge  of  the 
storm,  breasting  the  inanimate  waves  of  the  snow-drifts 
as  the  sea  gull  and  the  stormy  petrel  breast  the  face  of 
the  sea.  I heard  their  twittering— I cannot  find  a word 
to  describe  the  note— but  it  came  to  me  like  a faint  ripple 
of  sound  in  the  intense  and  cold  silence.  It  spoke  to  me 
more  movingly  than  any  articulate  utterance  I know. 
My  heart  swelled— with  my  eyes  I followed  them  until 
they  were  lost  in  the  distance— I was  almost  breathless 
with  emotion,  with  delight. 

Night  sounds: 

Of  the  winds,  there  is  much  variety  in  tone  and  char- 
acter. 

The  most  frequent  here,  the  west  wind,  is  a wild 
spirit.  All  the  wind  voices  that  thrill  and  startle  are  his — 
wailing  cries  in  despairing  accents,  sounds  of  hooting 
and  moaning,  and  shriller  screams  and  whistlings.  His 
attacks  are  fierce,  and  persistent  too.  When  at  night  I 
hear  a loud  rumbling  under  the  eaves,  and  the  trees  be- 
ginning to  roar,  I know  there’ll  be  no  cessation  until  either 
the  clouds,  that  must  be  heavy  on  the  mountains,  are 
broken  and  scattered,  or  the  wind  changes  its  direction. 


i6 


STOWE  NOTES 


If  from  the  north,  it  comes  with  a cold  and  steady 
flow,  almost  voiceless,  slipping  through  the  bare  branches 
without  a perceptible  sound,  perhaps  moaning  softly  at 
the  corners  of  the  house,  but  always  in  the  pine  that 
stands  in  the  dooryard,  arousing  a voice  that  sighs  and 
murmurs  with  ceaseless  sweetness,  rising  to  a thin  and 
airy  whisper,  and  again  gathering  power,  until  it  sinks 
to  a deep  sonorous  soughing— a monody  infinitely  sad 
and  soothing. 

The  south  wind  is  at  once  blustering  and  stealthy. 
His  onset  is  almost  as  terrific  as  the  wild  west  wind,  but 
when  you  wait  for  the  full  force  of  the  gale  this  outburst 
presages,  there  comes  a sudden  lull,  a moment  of  silence 
almost,  when  some  airy  voice  in  the  distance,  scarcely 
audible,  dies  on  the  ear,  and  there  comes  some  light  and 
startling  sound,  as  of  the  lift  of  the  slats  in  the  shutter, 
or  as  if  deft  and  invisible  fingers  tried  the  fastenings  of 
the  window.  These  bursts  of  the  south  wind  through  a 
leafless  orchard,  will  pass  like  the  roll  of  muffled  drums. 

Yesterday  was  like  a March  day — windy,  and  yet  not 
very  cold.  Lakes  of  blue  sky,  and  dark  veils  of  mist 
shrouding  the  mountains,  and  snowflakes  floating  in  the 
air. 

The  afternoon  I spent  in  the  south  wood,  where 
Henry  and  Arthur  were  cutting  up  the  fallen  timber.  I 
don’t  know  of  any  manual  work  that  I think  I should 
enjoy  so  much  as  wood-chopping.  It  is  a most  interest- 
ing thing  to  see  a tree  dismembered,  the  smaller  limbs 
and  twigs  lopped  off,  the  boughs  cut  into  fagots,  the 
trunk  sawed  into  lengths. 


JANUARY 


1 7 


The  axe  is  in  itself  the  most  inviting  weapon,  an 
exceeding  handy  tool.  The  environment  is  so  charming, 
and  there  are  pleasures  connected  with  it  that  result 
from  the  work  itself,  as  of  the  echo  that  wakes  the  wood 
on  every  stroke  of  the  axe,  a sound  that  satisfies  the  ear, 
neither  too  harsh  nor  too  loud,  but  full  of  a certain 
primitive  music,  ringing,  conclusive.  I stood  for  over 
an  hour  watching  the  process  of  the  work,  over  knees  in 
wet  snow. 

We  came  out  at  about  half  past  five;  there  was  a 
break  in  the  clouds  southwest,  and  irregular  lines  of 
flame-color  behind  the  tree-tops. 

The  day  before  was  unusual  in  its  character.  It  was 
mild— at  noon  the  thermometer  registered  something 
like  thirty-six  degrees.  There  was  a pleasant  wind, 
and  although  the  sky  was  overcast,  the  light  shone 
through  it  as  through  water,  with  a suggestion  of  inter- 
cepted but  not  remote  sunshine.  The  wind  was  more 
southerly  than  southwesterly,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
rise  of  temperature,  had  nothing  of  the  spring  quality 
that  is  common  during  a thaw.  It  was  rather  like  the 
air  of  an  early  autumn  day,  cool,  pleasant,  soft,  but  not 
enervating,  with  a quality  in  it  that  is  the  secret  of  those 
strange  sensations  of  revival,  of  longing,  that  come 
sometimes  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  but  always  with  the 
spring.  That  sense  of  mental  and  moral  release  that  the 
April  thaws  bring— there  is  something  in  it  more  than 
the  revival  of  life,  the  loosing  of  the  waters,  the  relaxa- 
tion of  Winter’s  stricture.  It  is  a quality  in  the  air , in 
its  freshness  and  temperance,  that  whispers  of  wider 
horizons,  that  leads  the  thoughts  beyond  the  range  of  the 


i8 


STOWE  NOTES 


eye,  to  the  unseen  valleys,  mountains,  and  forests  over 
which  it  blows ; more  than  a local  wind  controlled  by  the 
geographical  conditions  of  some  particular  state  or 
country,  it  seems  to  come  over  half  the  round  of  the 
earth. 

What  is  it  that  suggests  and  governs  the  migrations 
of  birds?  Ornithologists  explain  it  by  the  hypothesis 
that  birds  return  in  summer  to  their  original  home,  which 
they  have  learned  to  desert  in  winter-time  in  pursuit  of 
a warmer  and  more  propitious  climate.  However  it  be, 
Fm  sure  it’s  this  subtle  invitation  in  the  spring  and 
autumnal  winds  that  tempts  them  and  keeps  alive  the 
migratory  impulse  that  suggests  the  half-forgotten 
images  of  other  lands.  The  thrush,  now  in  the  warmth 
of  the  West  Indies,  will  remember  the  cool  silence  of 
these  damp  northern  woods ; the  robin,  in  the  Gulf  States, 
be  reminded  of  his  New  England  farm. 

So  in  autumn,  when  they  gather  for  flight,  it  will  be 
interesting  to  fancy  what  sweet  and  sudden  revival  of 
memory  charms  them  southward. 

Spring  and  early  fall,  those  are  times  to  travel  in. 

To-day  is  cloudy  before  noon,  with  a very  delicate 
light  dust  of  snow  on  the  boughs,  giving  the  wood,  espe- 
cially where  an  evergreen  shows  on  the  edge,  a most 
interesting  aspect. 

There  is  the  freshness  and  stillness  of  early  summer 
morning  in  the  air. 

At  noon  the  clouds  break,  detaching  into  mackerel 
shoals,  and  the  turquoise  blue  of  the  sky  appears. 

They  are  taking  ice  out  of  the  pond,  and  the  clear, 


JANUARY 


19 


green-blue,  peacock-blue  cakes,  shot  and  veined  with 
light,  present  a sight  as  rich  and  satisfying  as  if  they 
were  indeed  of  the  so-called  precious  minerals. 

To-day  in  the  wood,  that  characteristic  sound  of  cold, 
the  cracking  of  the  trees,  like  the  pop  of  an  air-gun,  in 
more  subdued  quality,  and  sharper,  like  a small  revolver 
report ; sometimes  even  a heavier,  more  impressive 
sound. 

After  an  hour’s  hard  work,  succeeded  in  bringing 
down  the  large  basswood ; it  fell  with  much  splintering, 
and  threw  a dense  cloud  from  the  soft  snow  into  which 
it  plunged. 

A lovely  effect  of  light,  looking  eastward  (there  was 
a very  fine  drifting  of  little  snow-crystals,  and  an  over- 
cast sky,  no  bright  sunlight),  a most  soft,  dove-colored 
world;  the  snow  on  the  boughs  the  lightest  of  all  the 
tones,  and  that  a subdued  yellowish  white,  against  a 
purple-blue  sky,  mauve  clouds,  and  the  richer  and  deeper 
purple  of  the  distant  hillside. 


FEBRUARY 


Two  nights  of  last  week  were  interesting,  the  moon 
then  growing  to  the  full : first,  windy,  and  clear  moon- 
light ; second,  the  breaking  away  of  clouds  that,  pushed 
eastward  by  the  rising  west  wind,  trailed  swift  shadows 
across  the  white  country.  The  air  was  fresh  and  cold, 
like  the  breath  of  young  Winter— a December  or  late 
November  wind,  icy  and  vitalizing.  The  collies  ranged 
the  farm,  clamorous  against  the  moon,  galloping  with  the 
flying  shadows,  or,  distinctly  seen,  black  wolfish  forms  in 
the  moonlight. 

Last  night  the  wind  was  more  southerly,  less  boister- 
ous, but  full  of  many  blended  sounds.  The  moon  (nearly 
full)  was  hidden,  but  the  clouds  were  not  very  dense,  and 
a pale  and  uniform  light,  aided  by  the  reflection  from  the 
snow,  pervaded  the  scene. 

Whenever  the  wind  shook  the  little  cherry  trees 
below  my  window,  there  was  a high-pitched  rushing 
sound,  with  a kind  of  ghastly  brightness,  like  a thin  gush 
of  water,  and  with  this,  at  times,  the  soughing  of  the 
pine  mingled  distinctly.  In  the  pauses,  the  sugar-wood 
roared  like  the  distant  sea,  and  when  this  sound  fell,  the 
vox  humana  of  the  storm,  the  eerie  plaintive  murmur, 
unlocalized,  unaccountable,  seeming  to  come  from  inde- 
finable distance,  a whisper  in  the  horizon,  crept  in  among 
the  subsiding  sounds.  Laying  my  ear  close  to  the  win- 


20 


A February  Afternoon  (Hogback  in  Distance) 


FEBRUARY 


21 


dow  was  as  if  to  the  mouth  of  a shell.  The  night  was 
hollow,  reverberant.  There  was  no  wailing  and  hooting 
in  the  wind— a more  mysterious  agency  seemed  at  work. 
The  slats  of  my  shutter  were  rattled  and  fingered ; there 
were  sudden  gusts  and  quick  subsidence — the  wind 
seemed  to  be  feeling  its  way;  it  was  a reconnaissance,  a 
scouting,  on  the  advance  of  the  storm. 

Mr.  Cobb  says  that  sometimes,  cutting  trees,  he  has 
come  across  a deermouse’s  nest  in  some  hollow  trunk, 
where  he  found  stored  as  much  as  a quart  of  beech  nuts, 
or  even  more. 

This  morning,  which  is  windless,  clear,  and  cold 
(eighteen  degrees),  has  a freshness  like  an  early  June 
morning. 

Gamers  Hump  and  the  Mountain  are  white-capped, 
and  below,  a third  of  the  slope,  is  a frosty  band,  sharply 
defined,  where  the  clouds  rested  yesterday.  Out  driv- 
ing, I noticed  the  extraordinary  blueness  of  mountain- 
sides seen  through  pine  branches,  now  somewhat  dull  in 
color — yellowish. 

I remarked  several  days  ago  that  the  hemlocks  and 
spruces  in  the  pastures  were  faded,  and  I fancied  the 
pines  retained  their  color  much  better.  This  is  the  case 
of  the  pine  in  the  dooryard,  whose  tassels  are  a vivid  and, 
in  some  lights,  bluish  green. 

Last  night  the  rush  of  the  wind,  the  tinkle  of  rain, 
reminded  me  of  summer. 

Getting  up  in  the  darkness,  I saw  a salmon-colored 


22 


STOWE  NOTES 


square  on  the  near  corner  of  the  barn,  and  knew  it  to  be 
early  morning,  and  this  indication  a lantern  gone  with 
the  hired  man  to  the  milking.  Later  I saw  its  rays  swing 
and  tremble  on  my  ceiling,  and  heard  the  house  door 
closed. 

At  half  past  nine,  thermometer  forty-five  degrees, 
wind  getting  to  the  west,  signs  of  clearing — a complete 
thaw.  I notice  in  the  house  little  gnats,  some  with 
straight  antennae;  some,  I think,  plumed— these  smaller. 

Overcast  and  excessively  windy  during  the  morning. 
At  about  three  p.m.  went  out  walking.  The  thaw  had 
melted  the  snow,  and  left  more  than  half  the  surface  of 
the  fields  and  pastures  bare.  It  lies  in  hollows,  and  on 
the  north  sides  of  little  slopes,  rocks,  or  eminences  of 
any  sort.  The  ice,  over  the  surface  of  which  flows  a thin 
stream  of  water,  is  rotten. 

There  is  a sense  of  relief,  of  revival,  in  this  relaxing 
of  Winter’s  grasp,  this  reappearance  of  the  earth  out  of 
her  shroud.  A pleasant  perfume  is  in  the  air.  A posi- 
tive pleasure  is  the  pressure  of  the  foot  upon  the  soft 
saturated  mould,  grass,  and  mosses.  Something  in  the 
air  and  the  sunshine  of  summer. 

Among  the  spruces  in  the  west  pasture : on  the  north 
side  of  a group  of  these  I see  the  sunlight,  admitted 
through  the  interposing  foliage,  fall  in  spots  upon  the 
this-way-spreading  branches,  vivifying  the  rich  green. 
How  precious  now  is  every  hint  of  this  loveliest  color ! 

Mounting  the  slope  of  a long  boulder,  over  its  top,  in 
the  hollow  on  the  further  side  I saw  a salmon-colored 
bird  that,  observing  me,  took  refuge  in  the  thick  boughs 


FEBRUARY 


23 


of  a spruce  near  at  hand.  Standing  perfectly  still,  I was 
presently  aware  of  another  fluttering  out  from  the  same 
tree,  this  an  olive-gray,  somewhat  tinged  with  yellow. 
At  first  I took  them  for  a pair  of  pine  grosbeaks,  but 
they  seemed  too  small.  On  further  investigation,  I in- 
clined to  believe  them  crossbills. 

I must  have  spent  three  quarters  of  an  hour  in  watch- 
ing this  pretty  couple.  They  having  gone  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  tree,  I made  a cautious  and  silent  detour,  and 
was  rewarded  by  a sight  of  the  male,  on  the  bough  of  a 
hemlock,  pecking  at  a spruce  cone  which  he  held  with 
one  claw.  On  his  dropping  the  cone  and  flitting  away, 
I made  my  advance  into  the  clump  (a  spruce  and  a hem- 
lock growing  close  together  and  spreading  as  one  tree), 
hoping  to  gain  a view  near  enough  to  satisfy  my  doubts. 
So  silent  they  were,  that  at  length,  believing  them  flown, 
I discarded  caution  and  began  to  push  through  the 
branches,  when,  bending  forward,  I saw  in  the  little 
hollow  where  I had  first  come  upon  them,  the  salmon- 
colored  head  of  the  male,  twitching  uneasily  from  side  to 
side,  the  feathers  of  the  crest  ruffling. 

A cautious  retreat,  a wide  circuit,  and  I again  ap- 
proached from  the  same  side  as  at  first. 

I came  within  full  view,  scarcely  fifteen  feet  away. 
I never  saw  bird  so  tame.  The  male  seemed  uneasy,  and 
would  flutter  off  from  time  to  time,  and  call  in  a husky, 
subdued  twitter,  from  the  obscurity  of  the  spruce,  to  his 
more  confiding  mate.  At  length  I sat  down  within  ten 
feet  of  them ; they  took  wing  on  my  motion,  but  soon  re- 
turned, and  fell  to  work  upon  the  cones,  sometimes  peck- 
ing them  on  the  ground,  sometimes  flying  with  one  to  a 


24 


STOWE  NOTES 


bough  near  at  hand,  and  bending  over,  with  ruffled 
necks,  searching  out  the  seeds;  the  ground  was  littered 
with  the  detached  scales.  They  appeared  plump,  well- 
fed  little  creatures,  the  female  in  particular.  Though 
both  were  business-like  feeders,  the  latter  seemed  to 
devote  herself  to  it  to  the  exclusion  even  of  fear. 

Though  I looked  carefully  at  such  close  quarters,  I 
could  not  distinguish  the  cross  bill ; the  bill  seemed  long, 
rather  heavy;  I fancied  not  stout  enough  at  the  base  for 
a grosbeak ; in  the  male,  black ; in  the  female,  light  horn- 
colored  (both?).  I noticed  the  downward  curve  of  the 
upper  mandible. 

The  male  was  rosy  or  salmon-colored;  back  darker— 
dusky;  wings  and  tail  black  (two  bars  of  white  in  wing 
—sharply  marked)  ; a wash  of  bluish  ash  on  flanks  and 
grayish  below;  rump  bright  salmon;  dark  line  through 
eye,  and  dark  crescent  on  cheeks;  bill  dark.  Female 
grayish  olive;  wash  of  yellow  on  breast  and  back;  dusky 
and  broader  crescent  on  cheeks,  and  dusky  head  faintly 
streaked  with  dusky  (brown?).  Wing  and  tail  darker. 
White  ( cloudy-buff y)  in  wings;  rump  bright  yellow. 
I think  they  were  white-winged  crossbills. 

Five  o’clock : Twenty-three  degrees ; freezing  again ; 
the  little  rills  checked. 

A snow-storm  coming  down  from  the  west  over  the 
mountains,  white  wreaths— bluish,  blown  like  smoke, 
with  the  dark  blue  Mountain  beyond;  it  seems  a vast 
forest  fire ; you  almost  expect  to  see  flames  burst  out  at 
the  base  of  these  wavering  columns. 

The  storm  gives  a misty  appearance  to  the  southern 


FEBRUARY 


25 


horizon,  where  the  sun  is  shining  under  the  clouds. 
Camel's  Hump,  far  away  south  beyond  the  storm,  is  seen 
through  a purple  veil. 

On  the  crest  of  the  hill  I again  heard  a distant 
“tweet."  Twice  during  the  morning  the  same  note, 
faint,  uncertain,  had  caught  my  attention,  but  on  each 
occasion  I saw  nothing.  As  I faced  toward  the  sound, 
over  the  plowed  crest  came  a flurry  of  wings,  a large 
flock  of  snow  buntings  passed  close  over  my  head,  their 
black-barred  white  wings  flashing  in  the  sunlight.  They 
flew  with  a fine  sweep,  reminding  me  of  sea  birds,  and 
passed  northward,  floating  down  toward  the  wood  with 
something  of  the  graceful  descent  of  pigeons. 

For  an  instant  the  air  was  full  of  their  weak  twitter- 
ing notes,  and  then  the  profound  winter  silence  again 
settled  upon  the  scene. 

It  was  very  cold,  but  there  was  little  wind,  and  few 
clouds  in  the  perfect  blue  sky.  The  mountains  were 
bathed  in  sunlight.  Mansfield,  hollowed  with  deep  blue 
shadows,  crowned  by  glittering  snow,  seemed  to  sleep  in 
enchantment.  A feeling  of  exaltation  and  of  loneliness 
crept  over  me.  Sometimes  I thought  I heard  the  distant 
stroke  of  an  axe.  Looking  across  the  road,  I became 
conscious  of  a strict  but  unobtrusive  scrutiny.  In  the 
doorway  of  the  shed  attached  to  the  upper  barn  were  set 
the  faces  of  two  sheep,  the  noses  in  sunlight,  the  eyes  in 
shadow. 

A mass  of  ice,  a mimic  glacier,  stretches  down  the 
middle  of  the  meadow  from  the  springs. 

The  Mountain  is  seen  at  its  best  in  winter,  with  snow 


26 


STOWE  NOTES 


and  ice  along  the  rocky  summit — the  “bald.”  In  this 
hoary  coating  it  seems  like  some  great  Colossus,  maimed 
and  time-eaten,  more  majestic,  more  inscrutable,  with 
loftier  riddles  than  the  Sphinx. 

Pleasant,  windless  day— a thin  cloud.  Saw  a pair  of 
redpolls ; had,  I fancied,  less  of  sulphur  yellow  in  plum- 
age. Greenland  redpolls? — quite  gray. 

Out  driving,  the  sleigh  slipped  along  with  an  easy 
motion ; the  minute  hailstones  stung  as  they  flew  into  my 
eyes.  Coming  up  the  hill,  we  startled  a flock  of  snow 
buntings;  they  rose  silently,  made  a graceful  curve  in 
the  air,  and  settled  verily  like  snowflakes. 

The  blueness  of  shadows : 

On  Luce’s  Hill  the  long  shadows  from  the  afternoon 
sun,  on  the  open  fields  of  snow,  are  so  intensely  blue  that 
by  comparison  the  sky  appears  green — a delicate  trans- 
parent green. 

Our  shadows,  that  step  with  us,  are  transmuted  from 
dusky  and  sinister  adherents  to  gay  companions,  making 
much  of  their  brilliant  tint,  stretching  over  the  snow. 

This  day  is  perfect  winter,  clear  as  a bell,  whelmed 
and  softened  in  sunlight,  with  an  icy-flowing  north  wind, 
to  which  the  pines  sing,  though  bare  boughs  are  silent. 
The  trees  on  the  mountains  are  completely  snow-covered 
—with  the  sun  upon  them,  even  the  evergreens  show  no 
trace  or  hint  of  green.  Hogback  is  a frosted  cake,  a 
coral  reef— its  spots  of  shadow  deep  purple-blue. 

How  beautifully  Luce’s  Hill  descends  to  meet  the 


FEBRUARY 


27 


nearer  ridge,  the  crumbling  edge  of  its  snow-fields 
rounding  down  into  a blue  hollow,  against  which  is  im- 
posed the  cloudy  wood  with  its  dark  points  of  evergreen 
on  Cady’s  Hill ! 

Are  the  shadows  bluer  looking  north  than  south  ? I 
think  so;  especially  when  they  are  thrown  along  an  in- 
cline at  a more  obtuse  angle  with  the  ray,  on  a north 
slope. 

I was  rather  disappointed  in  the  sunset,  which  was  a 
trifle  obscured ; only  the  more  northerly  end  of  Hogback 
was  touched,  and  that  lightly,  by  a pale  magenta  tinge. 
The  rest  lay  white,  and  after  the  sunset  faded,  looked 
wintry,  cold  as  the  uninhabited  North.  But  the  more 
easterly  pyramidal  point  of  Sterling  was  flushed  on  its 
southern  side.  Below  was  the  blue  shadow  that  en- 
veloped all  the  range  as  far  south  as  Camel’s  Hump,  and 
this,  the  last  peak,  marking  the  southern  limit,  alone 
caught  the  sunset. 

Far  away  to  the  north  Eden  lay  in  a rosy  haze,  so  soft 
as  to  suggest  summer.  This  distant  country,  which 
floats  forever  in  a celestial  atmosphere,  azure-tinted, 
empurpled,  pale  blue  spaces,  and  darker  bars  and 
patches,  which  are  its  woodlands,  now  fades  from  rose  to 
lilac,  lilac  to  blue — transitions  of  color  as  subtle  and  deli- 
cate as  are  seen  in  sunset  clouds. 

It  has  been  thawing  slightly  to-day.  The  sun  is  set ; 
long  purple  bright-bordered  clouds —streaks  across  the 
sky— float  on  the  limpid  golden  horizon.  The  tassels  of 
the  pine  stir  and  sway  in  the  south  wind,  which  now 
blows  chilly,  and  moans  at  the  corner  of  the  house. 


28 


STOWE  NOTES 


This  month  of  this  year  will  be  memorable  for  its 
sunsets.  Yesterday  what  glory,  what  tender  charm! 
Such  phenomena  can  have  no  adequate  expression  in 
art : they  are  too  transient,  as  are  the  emotions  they  ex- 
cite. 

To-day,  looking  south  across  snow-drifts  to  the 
mountains,  I observed  that  the  value  of  the  drift  shadow 
was  the  same  as  that  of  the  distant  mountains,  and  the 
difference  in  color  was  very  slight,  the  shadow  being 
slightly  purple. 

Several  nights  ago,  I heard  an  owl.  It  was  a still 
dark  night,  no  star  visible,  but  what  looked  like  one — 
the  light  in  a farmhouse  miles  away  on  Luce’s  Hill. 
Still  the  broad  snowy  fields  made  a kind  of  light:  it  was 
possible  to  detect  the  limits  of  the  south  wood.  The 
thermometer  stood  at  about  twenty  degrees,  but  there 
was  a damp  feeling  in  the  air,  as  of  a thaw ; and  out  of 
this  still,  cold,  and  moist  darkness  came  a muffled  hoot- 
ing. It  sounded  near  at  hand,  and  seemed  uttered  in  a 
low  and  melancholy  tone,  but  it  may  have  been  the  dis- 
tance that  softened  it : “Hoohoo,  hoo,  hoo !” 

This  morning,  the  poultry  being  let  out  to  wander 
around  the  yard,  the  cocks  began  crowing  to  Spring. 

They  rub  their  eyes  and  yawn  out:  “Winter  is  over. 
Hurrah  for  Spring!”— the  last  with  sleepy  enthusiasm, 
cheerfully,  but  with  slurred  and  inarticulate  utterance, 
like  the  fervor  of  drunkards. 

It  is  an  undeniable  thaw,  a continuance  of  yesterday’s 
melting  work.  Thermometer  forty  degrees  or  there- 


FEBRUARY 


29 


abouts ; the  air  mild  but  damp ; the  stable-yard  repulsive, 
muddy  and  manury,  but  there  is  a pleasant  smell  of  hay 
from  somewhere. 

Leon  tapped  a maple  yesterday,  and  the  sap  ran,  drip, 
drip,  into  the  tin  pail.  This  is  my  first  sight  of  it — thin, 
limpid,  like  water,  slightly  sweetish.  Some  maples,  they 
tell  me,  run  as  sweet  as  syrup,  but  these  give  a less  quan- 
tity generally. 

It  is  a strange  thing  to  see  a gnat  dance  in  the  lamp- 
light on  this,  the  night  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  February. 

Out  of  doors  it  is  overcast,  thawing,  dismal. 

Last  night,  about  nine  o'clock,  as  I looked  out  of  the 
window  after  putting  out  the  light,  I saw  the  moon,  a 
broad  crescent  hanging  in  the  southwest;  its  rays  en- 
tered at  the  window  and  shone  upon  the  table.  The  dense 
furry  bough  of  the  pine  was  dark  against  this  illumina- 
tion. The  wind  stirred  its  tassels. 

This  morning,  which  was  overcast,  and  presented  in 
a sombre  light  the  pied  landscape  of  a thaw,  I walked  in 
the  west  pasture.  A mist,  a kind  of  drizzling  vapor, 
made  a false  distance  most  soft  and  charming.  The 
lichens  on  the  rocks  were  vivid. 

Sounds  carried  far  on  the  air — signs  of  a storm.  The 
screaming  of  jays,  the  creak  of  the  ox-sledge  carrying 
logs  from  the  wood,  the  call  of  the  driver. 

Beyond  the  scattered  evergreens  I started  up  a hare. 
Gaunt,  meagre,  of  a dirty  white  color,  he  seemed  to  em- 
body the  sentiment  of  the  thaw — an  aspect  of  it,  at  least. 
He  bounded  away  easily,  leaping  sometimes  about  ten 


30 


STOWE  NOTES 


feet,  and  disappeared  in  a thicket  of  maple  saplings.  I 
noticed  the  print  of  his  hind  feet  just  in  front  of  the 
fore  feet,  not  straddling  them,  so  I conclude  the  fore  feet 
had  already  left  ground  as  the  hind  feet  fell. 

I also  saw  the  tracks  of  squirrels,  and,  I think,  of 
foxes. 

Coming  home,  I noticed  the  lichens— -miniature 
forests  of  evergreen,  here  and  there  some  gray  variety, 
much  branched  and  divided,  rising  like  the  crown  of  an 
ancient  and  leafless  oak.  Some  of  these  mimic  trees 
were  vermilion-tipped— to  the  pigmy  inhabitants  ferns 
springing  to  a vast  and  brilliant  florescence,  others 
(palms?)  cup-shaped,  simple,  of  a salad  green.  A 
strange  country  this,  that  gives  fertile  forests  upon  bare 
rocks ! 

May  not  this  earth  have  something  the  same  aspect 
seen  from  a balloon  ? 

At  times,  contrasted  with  the  cold  cry  of  the  jays, 
came  a broken  note,  less  shrill,  less  frozen,  a sound  more 
appropriate  to  the  thaw.  Yet  I think  it  was  a jay  that 
uttered  it. 

Last  night,  after  I had  opened  my  window  and  was 
about  to  get  into  bed,  I noticed  the  curtain  fluttering, 
and  heard  a slight  rumble  under  the  eaves.  The  wind 
was  getting  up.  Presently  there  began  a most  lamen- 
table moaning,  most  human,  most  demoniac.  Lessening, 
it  fell  to  a low  angry  mutter,  threatening,  bovine. 

The  morning  was  cloudy;  cold  showers  from  the 
south.  I walked  out  past  the  pond,  where  the  ice  is  sunk 
and  a new  thin  coating  formed.  I noticed  some  cracks 


FEBRUARY 


3i 


made  in  the  embankment  by  the  frost.  The  sugar-wood 
beyond  is  a dull  red  with  the  rain-brightened  buds. 

The  walking  is  difficult.  Sometimes  I am  knee-deep 
in  snow,  sometimes  ankle-deep  in  mud.  I passed  by  the 
old  sugar-house  in  the  swamp ; numerous  tracks  of  squir- 
rels, foxes ( ?),  and  hares,  the  latter  quite  fresh,  and  of 
the  second  some  rather  curious,  the  fore  feet  separated, 
the  hind  feet  falling  almost  together,  so  as  to  form  a 
single  indenture  in  the  snow,  a triangular  track. 

Passed  beside  a dusky  copse  of  evergreens,  and 
against  the  black  hemlock  boughs,  the  diamond-hung 
boughs. 


MARCH 


This  morning  about  ten  o’clock  the  thermometer 
stood  at  four  degrees,  and  I think  it  did  not  go  much 
higher  in  the  course  of  the  day,  which  was  overcast, 
snowing,  and  with  a steady  north  wind.  I noticed  it 
again  at  five,  and  it  had  gone  down  a degree. 

From  about  three  to  four  o’clock  I walked  in  the  west 
pasture;  I went  for  the  purpose  of  collecting  some  bal- 
sam boughs,  which,  being  laid  on  the  top  of  the  stove, 
exhaled  a pleasant  odor. 

The  walking  was  very  difficult,  owing  to  the  loose 
snow  drifted  in  between  the  hummocks  and  hiding  the 
underlying  ice. 

The  brook  could  be  heard  but  faintly,  muttering 
under  a double  covering  of  ice  and  snow. 

The  spruces  and  balsams  were  heavily  weighted;  a 
touch  would  send  the  feathery  mass  scattered  like  pow- 
der from  the  ends  of  the  branches. 

I passed  up  on  the  edge  of  the  old  road  through  a 
small  group  of  balsams,  and  on  to  the  ridge  among  the 
branching  sumachs.  The  position  of  the  sun  might  be 
occasionally  detected  by  an  obscure  gleam  in  the  gray 
expanse  of  the  sky.  The  fine  snow  sped  almost  hori- 
zontally on  the  steady  wind.  Coming  home  by  the  pines, 
I was  stopped  by  a faint  note.  I saw  a bird  that  I took 
at  first  for  a blue  jay  rise  from  the  ground  and  slip 


3 2 


Lingering  Snow  (Looking  North) 


MARCH 


33 


behind  an  evergreen.  Almost  at  the  same  moment,  with 
a soft  and  broken  cry,  a vermilion-hued  bird  flew  close 
above  my  head,  swerved  suddenly  to  one  side,  and  disap- 
peared in  the  boughs  of  a spruce  close  on  my  left  hand. 
In  the  swift  glance  upward  I saw  distinctly  the  reddish 
chest,  pale  belly,  and  ashy  under  tail-coverts. 

This  disappearance  was  immediately  followed  by  the 
passage  of  one  darker  tinted,  that  with  a powerful  and 
easy  flight  swept  across  the  pasture  and  settled  in  the 
top  branches  of  a sumach.  I waited  patiently  for  the 
reappearance  of  the  first,  for  although  I felt  convinced 
they  were  the  male  and  female  pine  grosbeak,  I wanted 
another  glimpse  of  the  vermilion  plumage.  Had  I not 
seen  them,  I think  I should  have  recognized  the  note,  so 
strange,  so  plaintive. 

Casting  a glance  after  the  one  departed  (the  female), 
I was  startled  to  see  a flock  rise  suddenly  above  the 
thicket  of  sumach  where  she  had  settled.  They  rose 
high  into  the  air,  and  descended  fluttering  among  the 
evergreens  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  I immediately  set 
out  in  pursuit,  but  before  I had  retraced  my  steps  to  the 
pine,  they  were  up  again,  this  time  sweeping  down  to- 
ward me,  over  the  snowy  undulations.  They  passed 
within  a rod  of  me,  a considerable  flock  flying  rather 
low.  The  males  were  brilliantly  tinted— a deep  red, 
almost  crimson,  on  the  crown ; the  females  flying  showed 
an  orange  spot  on  the  rump.  Sometimes  a thin  lisp  inter- 
mingled with  their  twitter,  which  latter  sound  reminded 
me  somewhat  of  the  distant  chant  of  frogs,  sometimes  a 
cry,  like  the  jay’s,  but  fainter  and  softened,  more  like  a 
sea  bird’s,  but  not  so  plaintive.  They  appeared  to  me 


34 


STOWE  NOTES 


to  be  as  large  as  robins.  They  seemed  mightily  at  home. 
It  was  a beautiful  spectacle.  They  lit  in  the  pine’s  sway- 
ing boughs,  scattering  the  snow,  the  bright  males  con- 
trasting finely  with  the  dark  green  foliage.  It  was 
somewhat  difficult  to  tell  these  latter,  at  a little  distance, 
from  the  sumach  cockades,  off  which  I noticed  them 
feeding. 

My  last  sight  of  them  was  in  the  air,  making  another 
descent  a little  farther  along  the  slope,  fluttering,  falling, 
changing  place,  much  as  I have  seen  snow  buntings  do. 
There  certainly  is  a resemblance  in  their  flight,  and  also 
in  their  twittering  note. 

The  windows  are  heavily  frosted— ferns  and  stars. 
I found  a corner  to  peep  through  at  the  moon,  which  is 
to-night  at  the  full,  and  rose  overclouded,  a dusky  yellow 
spot. 

The  snow  still  sweeps  over  the  white  fields,  but  the 
wind  is  gone  down  somewhat.  I cannot  hear  the  pine. 

The  moon,  shining  on  the  frosted  windows,  stars  the 
pane  with  glittering  sapphires. 

Moonrise : 

First,  the  large,  round,  flat,  silver-gilt  surface  of  the 
moon,  behind  the  trees  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  shining 
through  the  bare  boughs. 

Second,  a faint,  indefinable  glistening  in  the  snow  in 
some  places— on  the  eastern  faces  of  drifts. 

Third,  the  shadows  taking  form,  dimly. 

Fourth,  shadows  growing  darker  and  contracting. 

The  other  day  the  golden  sunlight,  just  before  the 


MARCH 


35 


setting,  on  the  twigs  of  the  little  cherry  tree  at  the  west 
end  of  the  garden,  gave  it  the  effect  of  being  hung  with 
shreds  of  gold  tinsel. 

Again  I have  seen  the  pine  grosbeaks.  This  time  it 
was  among  some  small  evergreens  on  the  edge  of  the 
swamp,  a quarter  of  a mile  southeasterly  from  the  farm- 
house. 

I wandered  among  the  stumps  in  the  clearing,  amused 
by  the  tracks  of  mice,  making  a kind  of  running  pattern 
on  the  snow,  the  line  of  the  long  tail  twisting  about  be- 
tween the  little  footprints. 

It  was  clear  and  pleasant,  even  warm  in  this  spot, 
sheltered  by  the  rising  ground  from  the  keen-edged 
north  wind  that  had  made  my  ears  burn  as  I crossed  over 
the  fields. 

Near  the  group  of  evergreens  before  mentioned,  I 
heard  a soft  twittering — conversational,  cheery.  I crept 
around  the  side  of  a small  spruce,  but  before  I had 
moved  sufficiently  to  obtain  a glimpse  of  these  chatterers, 
one  lit  in  the  tree  above  my  head,  a female,  followed 
almost  immediately  by  the  salmon-colored  male. 

Of  the  plumage  of  the  latter,  I was  startled  by  its 
brilliancy.  The  crown  and  the  spot  on  the  rump  were 
almost  crimson.  A wash  of  rose-color  over  the  breast 
and  on  the  sides. 

The  poetry  of  a thaw— the  singing  world,  the  first 
rippling  voice. 

The  wet  woods. 

The  frost-formed  spring-holes  in  the  ice. 


36 


STOWE  NOTES 


Every  year  winter  subsides  like  the  flood— a repeti- 
tion of  such  scenes,  a renewal  of  such  hopes. 

The  young  shoots  and  buds  of  the  striped  maple  a 
waxy  pink. 

To-day  thirty-seven  degrees.  Snow,  rain,  and  low 
mist.  Roads  in  a terrible  condition.  Drove  to  Moscow 
and  back,  mists  creeping  low  among  the  ragged  tops  of 
hemlock  and  bare  branches.  Woods  a dull  red.  Ice  in 
large  blocks  stranded  along  the  river  edge:  yesterday’s 
thaw  must  have  raised  the  river  a great  deal. 

Agonized  squeal  of  wood  going  into  the  circular  saw, 
and  afterward  a hollow  deep  sound,  like  the  bassest 
strings  of  a bass  violin,  the  bow  drawn  slowly  across; 
something  like  muffled  thunder,  but  more  sonorous.  This 
sound  is  the  recover  of  the  saw-frame  rumbling. 

Diamond-hung  boughs  again. 

There’s  so  strong  a spring  feeling,  so  little  prospect 
of  a rally  on  the  part  of  the  defeated  Winter,  that  I fear 
I have  had  my  last  sight  for  the  year  of  the  porphyry 
mountains— the  blue,  blue,  snow-covered  hills  sleeping 
in  the  golden  afternoon  sunlight. 

In  the  valley  the  cocks  are  crowing. 

I was  in  the  sugar-wood  for  some  time,  both  in  the 
morning  and  afternoon.  Active  preparations  for  sugar- 
ing had  begun.  A tub  was  set  on  a slight  eminence 
about  fifty  yards  from  the  sugar-house,  and  in  this  the 
sap  is  to  be  emptied  from  a wagon  in  which  the  pails  are 
collected.  A tin  pipe  runs  from  this  tub  to  the  large 
wooden  vats  serving  as  reservoirs,  stationary  in  the 


MARCH 


37 


building.  This  pipe  was  coated  with  snow,  and  made  a 
straight  white  line,  singular  among  the  contorted 
branches,  the  more  conspicuous  as  every  twig  was  made 
evident  by  its  snow  coating.  The  temperature  was  about 
twenty-nine  degrees,  the  wind  was  raw,  from  the  north- 
east a slight  snowfall  sifted  through  the  boughs.  A 
strange,  silent,  echoless  place  was  the  sugar-wood.  The 
men  were  there  drawing  out  lumber — shadowless  but 
substantial  forms,  they  concentrated  in  their  persons  all 
the  color  of  the  colorless  scene — the  leathery  hue  of  their 
faces,  the  yellow  of  their  sheepskin  leggings,  their  home- 
spun  blue  overalls  and  blouses ; the  oxen  were  a yellowish 
white,  the  red  flecking  was  conspicuous. 

As  they  moved  about  at  their  work,  a bush,  a twig 
would  interfere  between  them  and  me.  Ordinarily  the 
neutral-tinted  and  open  twigs  would  hardly  be  noted  as 
an  impediment  to  sight;  but  now,  thickly  outlined  with 
snow,  the  smallest  of  them  was  a distinct  white  line  to 
shut  away  the  object. 

It  gave  the  wood  something  of  the  depth  and  mystery 
of  summer ; the  snow  served  for  foliage.  Behind  a bush 
the  men  lost  form  and  feature  and  became  patches  of 
color.  They  had  the  appearance  of  divers  in  a forest 
of  coral. 

From  the  fields  I hear  the  strokes  of  an  axe,  which 
the  echo  doubles  and  lengthens;  shudderingly  the  wood 
rings  vast  and  hollow. 

Driving. 

In  the  afternoon  the  wind  came  up  sharp  and  bluster- 
ing from  the  northwest,  dispersing  the  clouds.  The 


38 


STOWE  NOTES 


fields  looked  dry  and  gray ; the  ruts  began  to  freeze.  But 
after  I got  home  the  wind  had  gone  down.  The  air  was 
pleasantly  cold.  I walked  through  the  swamp  and  across 
the  rocky  part  of  the  west  pasture,  following  a fox’s 
track. 

The  golden  afternoon  light  brought  out  colors 
vividly.  I rested  leaning  on  the  fence.  An  old  road 
winds  here,  and  just  at  this  point  the  land  is  level;  it  is 
slightly  marshy  in  summer ; young  hemlocks  grow  scat- 
teringly,  and  a kind  of  willow  and  swamp  maples. 

It  was  profoundly  silent,  except  that  the  escape  of 
air  or  water  below  the  ice  I stood  upon  made  a soft 
popping  sound.  There  was  a singing  in  my  ears  like  the 
hum  of  flies ; the  air  was  slightly  damp ; I was  in  some 
way  reminded  of  a summer  evening. 

I looked  at  the  trees  illuminated  by  the  mellow  light, 
with  the  sense  of  pleasure  and  almost  relief  I have  often 
felt  then,  after  the  glare  of  the  day. 

There  was  an  indescribable  suggestion  of  spring  in 
the  air.  Until  lately  I have  never  had  any  experience  of 
this  season,  which  has  passed  while  I have  been  in  the 
city.  I have  seen  a spring  in  Georgia,  in  South  Carolina, 
but  never  in  my  native  country. 

Its  charm  is  more  delicate  than  that  of  any  other 
season.  The  sad  but  exquisite  intimations  of  Autumn 
have  hitherto  been  to  me  the  subtlest  expression  of 
Nature.  She  speaks  to  the  human  heart;  her  voice  is 
pathetic,  lovely;  but  Spring  is  all  sweetness  and  tender- 
ness; hers  is  the  strong  and  vital  charm  of  youth,  hers 
the  indefinable  delicacy  and  loveliness  of  childhood. 

Even  while  these  thoughts  were  in  my  mind,  the  note 


MARCH 


39 


of  a chickadee,  its  winter  note,  the  faint  lisp  and  “day- 
day-day,”  came  as  a voice  recalling  the  delight  of 
autumn,  a warning,  perhaps,  against  a vain  compar- 
ison. 

The  slender  tops  of  the  hemlocks,  with  delicate  beck- 
oning fingers,  wave  against  the  blue  sky  and  cream- 
tinted  clouds.  The  new  shoots  of  the  swamp  maples  are 
bright  red  upon  the  green  foliage;  the  twigs  of  the 
willows,  too,  are  red,  but  darker. 

Coming  home,  I noticed  the  tracks  of  hares. 

The  sun  made  the  sumach  cockades  a glowing  crim- 
son. I see  the  little  white  birch  catkins. 

Two  gnats  danced  in  the  room  (at  twilight,  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  then  suddenly  hori- 
zontally, then  the  vertical  motion  again,  like  visible 
points  on  an  invisible  leader’s  baton. 

After  dinner,  somewhere  about  seven  o’clock,  the 
west  was  still  alight.  A singular  arrangement  of  clouds. 
There  seemed  to  be  an  enormous  black  bat,  with  eared 
head  and  membranous  ribbed  wings  outspread,  hovering 
over  the  Mountain;  to  the  right  a cloud  rose  over  the 
summit  in  the  form  of  an  eagle’s  wing. 

The  bat  dwindled  and  scattered,  changed  into  many 
forms  and  was  dissolved;  but  chancing  to  glance  up,  I 
saw  the  same  form  repeated  with  singular  exactness 
higher  in  the  sky. 

Over  Sterling  there  was  a white  mist  like  snow ; the 
north  looked  bleak  and  inhospitable. 

Twilight  has  closed  in  early.  The  snow  is  sifting 
over  the  fields  on  a southwest  wind,  that  about  three 


40 


STOWE  NOTES 


o’clock  blew  boisterously.  I went  out  driving  around 
by  Gold  Brook.  It  was  typical  March  weather;  the 
roads  were  actually  drying  off  in  the  wind;  the  fields 
looked  their  palest;  most  dry  and  colorless  was  all  the 
landscape.  It  being  Monday,  which  I take  to  be  a uni- 
versal washing  day,  clothing  flapped  upon  the  lines.  The 
fantastical  spirits  of  the  wind  filled  out  these  convulsed 
garments  in  grotesque  and  malicious  caricature  of 
humanity. 

Found  a moth  in  one  of  the  sap  pails,  also  small  flies 
and  gnats. 

The  moth  was  a sphinx,  of  a terra-cotta  color,  or 
pink— an  imitation  clearly  of  dead  leaves.  It  was  dead, 
drowned— a Clarence-like  ending— “washed  to  death  in 
fulsome  wine.” 

At  the  sugar-house  I tasted  the  sap,  and  found  it 
decidedly  sweet,  which  is  owing,  I understand,  to  the 
freezing  of  the  day  previous.  The  pails  are  full,  with 
a frozen  cake  of  ice,  the  mould  of  the  pail,  swimming  in 
liquid,  and  it  seems  that  the  water  part  of  the  sap  freezes, 
leaving  the  sweeter  part  fluid.  The  early  runs  are  not 
so  sweet  as  the  later,  the  trees  being  full  of  frost. 

It  began  to  snow  as  I crossed  the  pastures  to  the 
south  wood,  a dense  and  blinding  storm. 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood  I heard  a wiry  chirp,  and 
after  much  difficulty,  so  heavy  was  the  snowfall,  I 
caught  a glimpse  of  the  bird,  high  on  a tree-top,  so  small 
among  the  large  flakes  that  I took  it  for  a kinglet.  From 
this  part  of  the  wood  came  a strange  note,  precisely  such 


MARCH 


4i 


a sound  as  the  tight-strung  wires  of  a piano  will  give 
being  picked,  and  this  I followed  (believing  it  to  be  a 
nuthatch)  more  in  the  hope  of  seeing  the  other  bird,  for 
its  twitter  was  less  easy  to  locate  than  this  more  pro- 
nounced sound,  and  I have  before  seen  kinglets  in  the 
company  of  nuthatches.  I lost  them  continually ; I stum- 
bled on  in  the  snowy  wood,  trying  to  work  around  to  the 
south  of  their  course  to  obtain  a view  unobscured  by  the 
falling  flakes. 

Through  young  beeches  and  maples  I reached  a 
slight  eminence.  From  this  point  two  large  basswood 
trees  tower  above  the  rest,  and  on  the  incline  of  their 
massive  trunks  snow  was  settling,  emphasizing  the  va- 
riety of  movement,  and  producing  an  effect  of  hoary 
and  imposing  age.  Here  the  faint  note  of  the  nuthatch 
reached  me,  mingled  occasionally  with  its  hoarser 
“quah-quah,”  and  a half-articulated  “chickadee”  re- 
vealed the  character  of  its  little  companion,  whom  I 
straightway  acknowledged  a tricksy  spirit  indeed.  The 
bird  I took  to  be  the  nuthatch  was  small,  even  smaller,  I 
think,  than  its  companion— the  red-breasted,  doubtless. 
It  flew  with  wonderful  rapidity,  darting  from  tree  to 
tree,  and  once  circled  twice  around  the  trunks  of  the 
basswood  trees  without  alighting,  and  with  the  dusky 
swiftness  of  a bat. 

The  large  and  slowly  falling  flakes,  whirling  down 
out  of  the  gray  sky,  seemed  to  weigh  down  my  eyelids, 
causing  my  glance  to  decline  with  them  to  the  ground. 

Of  late,  on  these  gray  cloud-tattered  skies,  an  Indian 
file  of  crows,  clamoring  as  they  go,  gives  a wild  kind  of 
charm. 


42 


STOWE  NOTES 


In  the  barn : 

Lambs.  Maternal  fullness  and  softness  in  the 
sheep's  ordinarily  cold  eye;  eyes  of  cows  and  of  the 
sheep  in  the  interior  pen  glowing  like  jewels.  The  low- 
ing of  the  cows  suppressed,  exactly  like  the  low  notes  of 
a bass  viol,  sonorous  and  vibrant. 


Hemlock-Spruce  (Late  Sprin: 


APRIL 


The  distant  fields  in  the  valley  are  changing  color 
ever  so  slightly,  from  gray  to  a faint  raw  greenish  tinge. 

Hermit  thrushes  heard  to-day  in  a woody  hillside 
near  Moscow,  from  the  river  road. 

To-night  it  is  warm  and  windy.  The  wind  comes 
blowing  gustily  from  the  south. 

After  supper,  at  about  seven,  I went  out  on  the 
piazza,  and  heard  the  longed-for  and  expected  note.  I 
went  to  the  edge  of  the  west  pasture,  which  was  very 
obscure  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill,  where  along  the  ridge 
the  evergreens  were  darkly  mingled  in  a cloud  of  still 
leafless  twigs.  Behind  were  the  dusky  mountains  and 
the  pale  salmon  strip  of  sky  above  them,  and  floating 
across  this  dim  expanse,  sometimes  stifled  and  carried 
away  in  faint  murmurs  in  the  gusts  of  the  south  wind, 
came  the  notes  of  the  hermit  thrushes. 

When  I am  dead  and  buried,  or  dead  and  burned,  I 
think  something  of  what  was  once  me  will  respond  at  the 
first  spring  song  of  the  thrushes.  It  is  the  immortal 
voice  that  speaks  to  something  dumb  and  nameless  in  the 
human  breast,  and  is  answered  by  a dumb  and  nameless 
yearning. 

It  conveys  a kind  of  immortality  upon  the  listener — 
it  comes  out  of  an  immeasurable  past,  and  carries  the 
soul  into  the  immeasurable  future.  They  sing  in  blissful 
eternity. 


43 


44 


STOWE  NOTES 


Wonderful  notes ! 

Like  the  precious  moments  in  life  and  in  art,  that  are 
thrilling  with  emotion,  full  to  the  brink  of  tears. 

Notes  so  varied,  clear,  and  full,  or  faint  as  an  echo 
lisping  softly,  like  a comment  on  the  thrilling  sweetness 
of  the  last,  sometimes  high  almost  to  shrillness,  and 
again  uttered  low  and  with  a melodiousness  ineffable. 

It  is  not  so  much  like  the  answering  notes  of  birds, 
as  like  a converse  of  happy  spirits. 

There’s  nothing  of  the  mirth  of  bird  songs  in  this 
one,  neither  joyousness  nor  hurry,  but  something  serene 
and  infinitely  sweet,  that  is  neither  joy  nor  sorrow.  The 
notes  fall  deliberately,  as  if  there  were  a consciousness 
on  the  part  of  the  singers  of  the  precious  quality  of  their 
utterances— golden  drops  from  the  very  fount  of  all  sad 
delight  and  chastened  joy. 

Sometimes  I hear  the  purring  of  a tree  toad  (Pick- 
ering’s), the  first  I have  heard  this  spring. 

The  piping  of  the  frogs  is  like  a continual  and  dis- 
tant jingle  of  sleigh-bells,  but  now  and  again  from  one, 
a little  nearer,  comes  distinctly  the  sustained  and  melan- 
choly whistle.  It  is  the  simplest  kind  of  utterance,  a 
single  sad  little  interrogative  pipe,  forever  uttered  in  the 
same  key.* 

The  moon  must  be  almost  full  to-night.  I walked  up 
the  road  a little  way;  the  air  is  very  dry  and  warm. 
There  are  two  sounds  that  puzzle  me— one  that  seems 

* The  notes  of  the  common  toad  and  Pickering’s  hyla  or  tree  toad  appear  to 
be  confused.  The  “piping”  referred  to  here,  and  on  page  49,  is  undoubtedly 
the  note  of  Pickering’s  hyla,  while  the  “purring”  and  (on  page  49)  “low,  pro- 
longed and  tremulous  sound  ” are  probably  the  trill  of  the  common  toad. 


APRIL 


45 


like  the  faint  buzz  of  a beetle,  recurring  at  frequent  in- 
tervals and  enduring  but  an  instant;  this  at  length, 
heard  in  proximity  sufficient  to  detect  its  real  character, 
discovers  itself  to  be  the  singular  bursting  or  twanging 
note  of  the  nighthawk.  The  other  is  a ripple,  a faint 
tinkling,  that  reminds  one  at  once  of  cricket  and  tree 
toad;  and  as  I listen,  the  tinkle  grows  louder,  and  there 
are  intermingled  twitterings  as  of  birds.  It  seems  to 
come  from  the  stone  wall  or  the  trench  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  I am  beginning  to  wonder  if  it  is  not  the  voices 
of  field  mice,  and  to  fancy  I see  little  stealthy  creatures 
gliding  among  the  stalks  of  weeds  and  the  dead  grasses, 
when  suddenly  the  explanation  occurs  to  me  in  a burst 
of  memory  or  some  association  of  ideas,  and  I recognize 
in  this  mysterious  sound  the  peculiar  twitter  of  swifts, 
passing  rapidly  overhead,  whose  notes  are  softened  and 
carried  over  in  the  wind.* 

The  pine  soughs,  and  tosses  its  boughs  wildly ; 
clouds  have  gathered  over  the  face  of  the  moon ; the  dead 
leaves  in  the  road  give  an  occasional  skip  of  somewhat 
ghastly  sprightliness,  and  rustle  with  a crisp  and  ex- 
ceedingly dry  sound.  Truly  it  seems  almost  too  much 
to  expect  of  these  long-buried  leaves,  that  have  danced 
all  summer  on  the  bough,  skipped  in  the  high  winds  of 
last  autumn,  and  have  since  lain  out  of  sight  and  mind 
for  four  long  months  under  a heavy  covering  of  snow, 

* Those  familiar  with  the  flight-song  of  the  woodcock  will  recognize  this  as  a 
very  good  description  of  the  impression  made  by  that  performance — the  nasal 
nighthawk-like  “peeping”  uttered  on  the  ground,  followed  by  the  confused  med- 
ley of  wing- whistling  and  liquid  vocal  notes  as  the  bird  soars  in  the  air.  April  is 
much  too  early  for  a nighthawk  in  northern  Vermont,  and  some  of  the  woodcock’s 
notes  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  the  swift’s. 


46 


STOWE  NOTES 


now  to  revive  and  sport  on  the  same  terms  with  the  tire- 
less wind. 

The  obscuring  of  the  moon  gives  point  to  a certain 
wildness  that  is  in  the  night,  a sense  of  hurry  that  is 
almost  like  alarm.  Dark  forms,  dark  places,  if  it  is  no 
more  than  a hole  in  the  ground,  seem  to  beckon,  move, 
and  run  in  the  uncertain  light. 

March  would  be  the  date,  or  even  February,  in  a 
warmer  climate.  Last  night,  heavy  south  wind— a cold 
raw  air,  driving  half-melted  snow  with  a level  drift. 
Usual  developments  of  a heavy  wind  from  this  quar- 
ter, turning  the  gable  with  a loud,  lamentable  cry ; hiss- 
ing of  driven  snow  in  the  pauses,  mingling  with  the 
large  roar  of  the  wood,  the  jumping  of  shutters  in  their 
fastenings,  the  gusty  approach,  followed  by  the  silent 
and  stupendous  push,  as  of  a vast  soft  body,  against  the 
side  of  the  house,  that  trembles.  Accompanying  all  this, 
brilliant  and  rapid  flashes  of  sheet  lightning  that  showed 
the  white  snowy  country  with  an  effect  peculiarly 
ghastly.  Occasionally,  following  the  brighter  flashes, 
was  a low  rumble  of  thunder. 

The  snow  tapped  and  hissed  against  the  pane,  and 
once  after  a brilliant  flash  a crackling  as  of  fire  seemed 
to  run  from  roof  to  cellar;  it  was  a sudden  burst  of  hail. 
Between  the  flashes  the  night  was  dark,  beyond  the  usual 
of  dark  nights:  for  no  glimmer  seemed  to  take  from  the 
snow — the  result  of  the  contrast  perhaps. 

Later  it  turned  to  rain  or  sleet,  and  the  flashes 
heaved  and  fluttered  in  the  impending  cloud,  like  heat 
lightning  in  summer. 

Morning  under  these  conditions  wild  and  strange. 


APRIL 


47 


Six  inches  of  soft,  clinging  “sugar  snow”  having 
fallen  yesterday,  the  country  has  resumed  its  winter 
aspect,  even  to  the  Mountain’s  heavily  frosted  silver 
ridges.  But  above  is  a soft  sunny  spring  sky,  and 
robins,  snowbirds,  and  song  sparrows  flit  over  the  snow- 
fields  and  perch  on  the  snow-weighted  spruces — a sin- 
gular and  fairyland  combination.  Especially  strong  is 
the  song  sparrow’s  song,  so  full  of  spring  and  sunny 
suggestions.  Indeed  the  other  birds,  less  courageous, 
find  no  heart  for  singing. 

What  delicate  snow-tints,  purple,  pink,  changing  to 
a blue  so  clear  that  it  becomes  greenish  in  contrast — in- 
deed it  may  be  green  rather  than  blue — I cannot  tell. 
How  light,  how  transparent  are  the  shadows ! 


[Two  years  later] 

In  the  wood,  where  the  snow  has  left  a flattened 
surface  of  compressed  and  soggy  leaves. 

Many  voices — that  of  the  white-crowned  sparrow,  is 
it  ? so  long-drawn,  strange,  and  solemn ; and  a rippling, 
tinkling  sound,  a varied  song,  wonderfully  sustained — 
the  winter  wren?  Robins  everywhere,  inarticulately 
cheery.  And  for  the  first  time  this  year  a hermit  thrush, 
from  far  in  the  darkness  of  the  hemlocks,  faint  and  yet 
distinct,  that  immemorial  voice. 

The  squeal  of  a hawk,  the  mew  of  a nuthatch,  and 
later,  after  sunset,  the  hoarse  crowing  and  hooting  of  an 
owl.  A day  or  two  ago  everything  was  silent,  dead: 
to-night  the  wood  echoes  and  rings  with  innumerable 
sounds. 


MAY 


On  the  road  from  Moscow  to  the  Waterbury  stage 
road,  by  the  edge  of  the  yellow  and  brimming  river,  two 
uproarious  red-winged  starlings  that  gave  every  now 
and  then,  among  harsher  cries,  a sweet  flute-like  note, 
somewhat  in  character  (though  the  comparison  is  an  in- 
justice) like  the  piping  fluty  sound  of  some  stop  of  a 
melodeon— coagulated  sweetness,  the  very  honey  of 
sound.  Here  also,  in  the  green-tipped  willows,  flitted 
myrtle  warblers. 

Warm  spring  rains  fall,  white  mist  and  clouds  cling 
to  the  woods  and  overflow  the  valleys ; through  the  rifts 
the  farm-dotted  slope  of  Sterling  grows  daily  a softer 
and  more  vivid  green. 

Spring-beauty,  pale  but  rosy-veined,  shows  in  wood, 
pasture,  and  along  the  highways. 

All  day  long  the  little  ringing  call  of  tree  sparrows 
is  heard,  and  robins  sing,  and  song  sparrows. 

Two  days  ago  the  lilac  leaves  were  fairly  out.  The 
maples  have  flowered. 

One  seems  to  be  in  a vast  greenhouse  in  this  moist 
spring  weather.  I cannot  hear  the  fall  of  the  rain  as  it 
drifts  so  fine,  but  I hear  the  splash  from  the  eaves. 

Last  night  at  about  half  past  nine  I looked  out  of  my 
window.  A heavy  white  mist  obscured  everything  below, 
except  the  near  acclivity,  the  rocky  crown  of  the  west 

48 


MAY 


49 


pasture.  From  this  cloud  that  enveloped  the  horizon  and 
hid  the  landscape,  fine  web-like  mists  floated  up  and 
overspread  the  sky,  that  seemed  illumined  by  a white 
boreal  glory.  Behind  and  between  this  veil,  the  stars 
shone  with  varying  brightness. 

As  I entered  my  bedroom,  through  the  window 
(which  opens  eastward)  I saw  a cloud  on  the  shoulder 
of  Hogback  that  seemed  to  be  a source  of  light  in  itself, 
so  impregnated  was  it  with  moonlight. 

A dense  mist  hung  over  the  garden  and  in  the  neigh- 
boring fields.  Before  the  moon  had  risen,  half  the 
shining  round  appeared,  a faint  prismatic  ring,  Saturn- 
like,  surrounding  it.  The  mists  disappeared  like  magic, 
and  like  magic  they  returned,  overwhelmed  the  scene, 
hid  the  garden,  hid  the  large  dim  outlines  of  the  barns, 
hid  the  mountain,  and,  slowly  thickening,  smothered  up 
the  moon  herself.  She  turned  from  gold  to  yellow,  from 
yellow  to  green,  from  green  to  a pale  colorless  gleam, 
and  so  went  out. 

The  murky  night  rang  with  piping  of  frogs  and  a 
low,  prolonged,  and  tremulous  sound,  the  trill  of  Pick- 
ering’s tree  toad. 

And  once  so  faintly  as  to  be  almost  unrecognizable, 
but  the  second  time  quite  clearly,  I heard  the  broken 
melodious  note  of  a song  sparrow. 

Little  blue  butterflies  now. 

It  has  been  threatening  rain  all  day— and  now  it 
falls.  The  end  being  accomplished,  the  noisy  south  wind 
is  less  wild. 

The  mountains  are  partly  obscured  in  the  mist,  indi- 


50 


STOWE  NOTES 


cated  so  faintly  that  their  outline  is  undiscoverable  to 
half-shut  eyes— their  color  is  the  color  of  mist,  but  above, 
the  sky  is  of  the  most  delicate  purple,  and  in  this  in- 
definable tint  suggests  sunshine  behind  the  veil. 

The  fresh  cool  spring  wind  fanning  the  plants,  the 
young  hemlock  bushes,  along  free,  joyous,  and  singing 
water-courses. 

Yesterday  afternoon,  bright  green  shadows— strong 
afternoon  rays— on  yellowish  field. 

There’s  a heavy  cloud  lying  in  the  dip  between 
Sterling  and  Luce’s  Hill,  which  hides  all  the  Mountain, 
except  high  up,  where,  like  a chain  of  celestial  islands, 
or  darker  clouds  on  the  universal  gray,  is  the  edge  of 
the  great  profile.  This  heavy  mass  of  vapor  has  over- 
lapped the  serrate  crescent  of  Sterling,  and  is  slipping 
down  into  the  enchanted  hollow.  A faint  reddish  light 
kindles  in  the  grayness,  lighting  up  with  a sombre  gleam 
the  sky  behind  the  waving  and  indistinct  outlines  of  the 
mountains.  The  gleam  deepens  to  a dull  glow,  and  as 
rapidly  and  as  mysteriously  vanishes.  The  heavy 
vapors  rise  about  the  Mountain,  and  hide  all  but  the  last 
and  highest  point  of  the  chin. 

Out  of  doors  (though  it  is  so  cold  that  I had  closed 
the  windows  and  kindled  the  fire)  I heard  the  melodious 
lisp  of  hermit  thrushes. 

To-night  heaven  is  divided  in  light;  the  east  has  few 
stars,  and  a red  and  angry  planet  glows  on  the  horizon; 
but  the  west  flashes  light— sparkles  and  clashes— beams 
cold  and  brilliant  as  swords.  One  might  hear  the  scintil- 
lations— keen,  musical  as  an  icicle  shattering  on  ice. 


MAY 


5i 


Driving  up  the  hill  on  my  way  home,  I heard  a kind^ 
of  flicker  cry  above  me,  and  a dark  bird  (it  seemed  to 
me  black  as  a blackbird,  from  the  view  I had  of  it,  its 
back  only)  swept  over  my  head  and  lit,  woodpecker-like, 
on  the  trunk  of  an  elm  in  the  pasture.  A broad  bar  of 
white  in  the  wings  (edged  with  red?)  and  a crimson 
occiput  and  crown.  I think  it  must  have  been  a logcock 
(pileated  woodpecker),  so-called  woodcock  in  these 
parts. 

After  reaching  the  house  I hurried  out  into  the 
pasture  to  obtain,  if  possible,  another  glimpse  of  it,  but 
I was  too  late. 

The  sky  had  become  overcast,  and  a strong  but  warm 
wind  blew  from  the  south.  The  distant  woods,  their 
rounding  tops,  took  a stronger  tint  under  the  darkening 
sky. 

The  delicate  foliage  made  an  inviting  mystery,  half 
hiding,  half  revealing  the  lovely  nakedness  of  Nature. 

The  white-spotted  buff  hides  of  Jersey  cows  showed 
among  the  tender  greens,  as  they  moved  quietly,  crop- 
ping the  soft  herbage,  violet-studded.  Their  eyes  of 
luxurious  contentment,  lustrous,  with  the  purple  gleams 
and  soft  brown  lights  of  a mountain  brook,  its  depths 
and  shallows.  As  I descended  the  hill,  with  the  velvet 
touch  of  the  caressing  south  wind  upon  my  cheek,  I felt 
with  intensity  the  delight  of  living.  The  joy  of  life  was 
like  a glory  around  me.  So  should  one  feel  at  all  times— 
such  a mood  should  be  the  mental  habit  of  a healthy 
creature.  One  should  not  need  this  sweet-scented  wind, 
this  heart-lifting  spring  season,  for  an  inspiration. 
There  should  be  no  times  of  indifference,  or  unfulfilled 


52 


STOWE  NOTES 


desire.  Every  hour  should  give  enough  to  exalt  it ; every 
season  should  have  its  peculiar  and  equally  appreciated 
delights. 

Later  I saw  a picture  of  Spring. 

It  was  about  half  past  four.  The  rain  had  ceased, 
but  the  wind  blew  fresh  and  vigorous  from  the  south- 
west. The  cows  were  huddled  near  the  bars.  The  old 
sorrel  horse  galloped  restlessly  along  by  the  fence,  neigh- 
ing to  some  mares  in  the  opposite  pasture.  The  white 
pine  tossed  in  the  wind,  and  above,  vast  golden-white 
clouds  sailed  in  the  clear  light-blue  sky. 

I climbed  over  the  rocks,  in  among  thickets  of  young 
maples,  red  and  sugar,  and  aspens. 

As  I walk  by  the  edge  of  the  wood  and  listen  to  the 
thrushes,  they  seem  like  spirits  conversing  in  some 
unearthly  language,  a tongue  of  unearthly  beauty. 

One  of  the  charms,  perhaps  the  principal  charm,  of 
their  song  is  its  variableness.  By  this  I don’t  mean 
variety,  but  a difference  in  the  degree  of  excellence  of 
various  notes  uttered  by  the  same  bird.  It  seems  as  if 
the  singer  were  striving  to  re-utter  some  exquisitely 
melodious  note;  sometimes  in  a high,  sometimes  in  a 
lower  key.  One  attempt  follows  the  other,  all  most 
dulcet,  but  lacking  some  quality  of  the  preeminent  utter- 
ance. Each  time  you  listen  with  an  increasing  interest — 
you  hold  your  breath,  expecting  the  promised  marvel, 
and  when  finally  that  perfection  of  melodious  sound  is 
reached,  you  feel  a creeping,  a shiver  of  intense  and 
strange  delight.  The  precious  infrequency  of  the  note ! 


MAY 


53 


I welcome  the  freshness,  the  coolness,  the  softening 
and  intensifying  charm  that  is  in  this  gentle  spring  rain. 

In  the  wood  the  veery  calls,  and  darts  across  the  road, 
slipping  among  the  dense  undergrowth.  I see,  I think, 
a three-toed  woodpecker,  dodging  behind  a tree  trunk, 
taking  furtive  peeps  at  me,  like  a tricksy  goblin. 

Now  is  the  mystery  of  the  wood  reestablished.  The 
eye  is  invited,  baffled,  and  charmed  amid  a quivering, 
fluttering,  living  sea  of  green.  Voice,  life,  expression, 
have  returned  to  Nature. 

May  evenings. 

To-night  the  sun  set  in  a limpid  sea  of  gold.  It  was 
chilly  for  the  time  of  year;  stars  quivered  in  the  pale 
glow  of  evening;  there  was  a leaf-fluttering  wind,  and 
a sense  of  hurry,  a breathless  delight,  almost  alarm,  in 
the  impending  night. 

The  hired  man  is  walking  toward  the  barn,  whistling 
a quick  tune,  a hornpipe ; he  takes  lengthy  strides,  a more 
forcible  accompaniment  than  a brisk  step.  Above  the 
palings  of  the  garden  his  shoulders  move  with  deliberate 
emphasis. 

I say  to  myself,  “The  curtain  rises.  Rustic  crosses 
over  the  stage.”  He  enters  the  barn ; his  whistling,  sub- 
dued, finally  ceases. 

A pause.  Swifts  and  swallows  twitter,  circle,  and 
dip.  Song  sparrows  gurgle  on  fence  posts;  from  the 
wood  the  wiry  song  of  the  veery,  the  serene  and  melo- 
dious voice  of  the  hermit  thrush ; and,  somewhere  out  of 
the  air,  scattered  tinkling  harp-strings  and  honey-drop- 


54 


STOWE  NOTES 


pings  of  sound,  shaken  out  over  the  meadows  in  the  mad 
and  merry  flight  of  bobolinks. 

Suddenly  on  the  crown  of  the  hill  appear  two  little 
shapes.  They  are  on  the  scene  with  a run.  They  pause, 
they  clasp  hands,  and  four  nimble  and  soundless  naked 
feet  twinkle  on  the  slope.  Two  little  boys,  as  frolic  as 
elves  or  brownies,  impelled  to  the  liveliest  motion  by  an 
excess  of  life— life  at  its  quickest,  flashing  swift  and 
sparkling  from  the  fount.  They  put  a constraint  upon 
themselves  to  walk  three  yards— their  steps  quicken— in 
an  instant  it  is  a run.  Seeing  me,  they  advance  more 
slowly,  but  not  without  evidences  of  the  brimming  and 
effervescing  energy  within;  the  too  sober  pace  of  walk- 
ing is  broken  by  sudden  hops  and  bounds. 

They  are  arrayed  in  what  are  but  too  evidently  the 
garments  of  an  elder  generation,  curtailed  to  their  lesser 
dimensions.  One  wears  a round  stiff-brimmed  hat;  the 
other’s  hat  is  brimless,  but  he  has  on  a shirt  with  a design 
of  large  round  black  spots.  They  have  concealed  about 
their  persons  whistles  (of  leatherwood,  probably),  from 
which,  bounding,  turning,  hopping  as  they  approach, 
they  produce  a low  and  hollow  piping.  They  neither 
speak  nor  look  at  one  another,  other  than  in  a chance  and 
passing  glance— outward  communication  seems  super- 
fluous, their  spirits  leap  in  such  perfect  sympathy. 

To-night,  just  before  sunset,  pine  linnets  and  gold- 
finches flitting  about  in  the  boughs  of  the  apple  trees, 
among  the  blossoms.  The  goldfinch  utters  a sweet 
canary-like  “twee,  twe-it.” 

In  the  pasture,  where  the  dusk  of  evening  is  gather- 


MAY 


55 


ing,  the  melodious  harshness,  the  ringing,  wiry  chant  of 
the  veery,  beside  which  the  sweet  lisp  of  the  hermit 
thrush  is  almost  insipid.  Through  the  misty  dimness  on 
the  opposite  slope,  moving  down  into  the  hollow,  Henry 
leads  the  mare,  and  the  stalking  colt  follows  with  awk- 
ward bounds. 

The  three-quarter  moon  is  gleaming  silvery-bright 
among  the  top  leaves  of  the  maples  in  the  dooryard. 

A twilight  walk. 

The  grove  of  young  and  densely  growing  sugar 
maples  east  of  the  Pilgrim  wood  was  in  almost  full  and 
fresh  leaf ; the  slender  stems  shone  palely  in  the  shadow 
of  the  deep  foliage.  Even  in  open  places  the  prevailing 
twilight  (for  the  sun  had  set  some  time  since,  and  only  a 
dull  glow  remained  on  the  clouds  behind  the  mountains) 
obscured  and  confused  the  features  of  the  ground;  it 
was  as  if  a shallow  wave  from  the  concentrated  dark- 
ness in  woody  places  had  overflowed  the  surface  of  the 
earth— the  turn  of  the  tide. 

In  among  this  heavy  leafage,  the  hermit  thrushes 
answered  one  another  in  their  measured  and  thrilling 
tones;  and  there,  also,  the  tawny  thrush,  the  veery, 
sounded  its  loud  emphatic  call,  and  from  time  to  time  its 
strange  song. 

No  note  that  I have  ever  heard,  not  even  the  hermit 
thrush’s,  seems  to  me  so  sylvan  a sound  as  this ; the  very 
word  suggests  it— sylvan.  It  can  only  be  described  by 
the  conjunction  of  opposite  terms : it  is  sweetly  harsh ; a 
ringing,  wiry  sound ; a succession  of  notes,  blended,  yet 
distinct,  beginning  softly  and  slightly  increasing  in  vol- 


56 


STOWE  NOTES 


time,  like  the  circling  ripples  where  a stone  has  fallen  in 
still  water ; and  as  the  ripples  swell,  so  every  repetition  of 
this  enchanting  song  seems  to  widen  to  the  imagination 
the  cool  and  dim  vista  in  which  it  is  uttered. 

It  is  the  spell  that  opens  the  mystery  of  the  woods, 
and,  like  the  notes  of  all  thrushes,  except  the  robins,  it 
has  the  precious  quality  of  deliberate  and  cherished  utter- 
ance. The  song  is  pitched  much  lower  than  the  single 
note  or  call,  which,  sounding  close  at  hand,  startles  one 
with  the  revelation  of  the  singer’s  nearness,  so  like  a 
ventriloquist’s  trick  is  the  change  of  tone ; the  song  hav- 
ing seemed  to  the  listener  to  come  from  some  little  dis- 
tance, subdued  by  a leafy  passage. 

On  the  higher  places  in  the  west  pasture  a wind  is 
stirring,  although  below  the  air  is  still  and  heavy,  and 
every  pause  brings  the  high-pitched  pipe  of  mosquitoes. 
But  on  the  higher  places  the  wind  frees  me  of  these 
unwelcome  companions ; and  there  I sit  down  to  rest  on 
a steep  rock,  the  summit  of  which  is  on  a level  with  the 
tops  of  the  young  trees  beneath. 

There  is  no  sound  so  significant  of  summer,  I think, 
as  the  rustle  of  leaves — the  very  voice  of  Nature,  low, 
but  almost  ceaseless.  Yet  it  is  too  level  and  unvaried  a 
sound  for  speech,  but  still  so  intensely  expressive  of 
being— of  life,  that  no  other  simile  would  suffice  to  de- 
scribe it,  unless  it  should  be  called  the  very  breath  of 
Nature,  and  this  seems  the  more  just,  that  listening  to  it 
I find  myself  trying  to  exclude  all  other  sounds,  just  as 
when  one  listens  to  the  breathing  of  a sleeper. 

A robin  chucks  and  chatters  and  flies  close  to  me  in 
evident  distrust,  but  finally  alights  in  a tree-top,  and 


MAY 


5 7 


bursts  into  his  broken,  cheery  daylight  warble— a 
strange  note  at  this  time,  when  the  solitary  thrushes  are 
silenced. 

Returning,  I pass  down  the  southern  slope  of  the 
pasture,  where,  not  far  from  the  large  pine,  the  flock 
of  sheep  are  gathered  and  have  settled  themselves  for 
the  night— dim  whitish  forms  huddled  here  and  there 
among  the  sweet-scented  hollows ; ewes  with  their  lambs 
lie  sometimes  in  little  encampments  apart  from  the  main 
body.  A few  are  alarmed,  and  move  away  as  I pass 
close  by  them ; one  lamb  follows  me  with  an  expression 
of  intense  and  foolish  curiosity. 

Leaving  the  small  growth  behind,  and  approaching 
the  open,  I hear  the  bizzing  of  nighthawks,  and  the 
piping  of  frogs  is  very  loud;  but  the  little  awful  voice 
of  the  spring  tree  toad  is  hushed — perhaps  the  night  is 
too  dry.* 

The  sneezing  and  hoof-beats  of  a horse  in  the  pasture 
opposite,  across  the  road,  are  exceedingly  loud  and  near, 
although  the  animal  is  invisible,  so  thick  is  the  air. 

Far  down  in  the  valley  lights  tremble  and  palpitate; 
the  stars,  less  bright,  are  peeping  out. 

Two  or  three  times  lately  (sitting  alone  in  my  room 
at  night,  or  lying  awake  in  bed)  I have  been  startled  by 
the  clear  loud  jingle  of  a song  sparrow;  and  last  night  I 
heard  suddenly  a field  sparrow's  long  rippling  note. 

If  the  large-eyed  hermit  thrush  presents  an  elfish 
aspect,  there  is  also  something  freakish  and  sprite-like 
in  the  demeanor  of  the  veery,  in  its  general  appearance 

* “The  piping  of  frogs  ” must  be  the  notes  of  the  hylas,  and  the  “ spring  tree 
toad”  was  probably  the  common  toad. 


58 


STOWE  NOTES 


and  expression  closely  resembling  the  hermit  thrush.  If 
it  is  less  shy,  it  is  more  startling : its  swift  short  flights, 
its  cheat  of  ventriloquism,  the  loud  abrupt  note  heard 
here,  there,  on  every  hand,  which  the  ear  can  hardly 
reconcile  as  coming  from  the  same  source  that  gives  so 
strange,  caressing,  and  almost  musing  an  utterance  in 
the  song. 

Verily  the  thrushes  have  inherited  the  spirit  of  the 
elves  and  the  dryads. 

The  hermit  thrush  sings  not  long  after  his  arrival, 
but  the  veery  allows  a long  interval  to  elapse  between  his 
coming  and  his  song.  He  cannot  sing  in  bare  open 
branches;  he  must  flit  unrecognized,  silent,  except  for 
a loud  and  vibrant  call,  until  the  leaves  have  come.  He 
must  have  the  mystery  of  the  leaves,  a hiding— the 
sylvan  singer  whose  voice  is  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 

To-night  I heard  his  song  ring  up  from  the  swamp, 
that  dreamy  and  ecstatic  tone,  that  swooning  sweetness, 
spiced  with  a bitterness.  His  is  the  last  exquisite  touch, 
the  crowning  charm,  the  very  flower  of  bird  song — and 
yet,  as  I write  this,  I feel  as  if  I did  wrong  to  the  im- 
mortal spirit  of  the  hermit  thrush. 


June 


JULY 


After  the  tornado  of  yesterday,  walk  in  the  south 
wood,  where  branches  are  strewn,  and  trunks  prostrate ; 
even  while  there  I hear  a tree  come  down  with  a splinter- 
ing sound — a prolonged  crash. 

As  I cross  the  mowing  in  the  long  grass,  the  ripe 
nodding  heads  of  timothy  look  like  a purple  ripple  on  a 
green  sea. 

The  strange  and  elfin  look  of  the  thrush.  Its  large 
eye— its  looks  are  no  less  distinguished  than  its  song. 

The  other  night  a hoot  owl  in  the  sugar-wood. 

A flock  of  snowbirds  uttering  a hard  unfamiliar  cry, 
and  I hear  the  chickadees  make  their  winter  note.  Ther- 
mometer all  day  fifty-eight  degrees  at  highest. 

Few  stars  in  moon-flooded  sky.  Stars  shone  dim, 
fainting  in  the  pale  sky.  Moonlight— almost  full  moon. 

What  a walk  in  the  cool  night  air — so  ample  a night ! 
Such  refreshing  air,  with  a hint,  a tinge  of  iciness.  “One 
star  of  such  abundant  lustre  hung  low  above  that  pallid 
gleam” — faint  suggestion  of  a semi-sunset  hue  above 
the  western  hills — a pale  dawning  at  nine  o’clock. 

Loud  sound  of  running  water,  wherever  water  runs, 
falling  of  a sudden  on  the  ear — difference  of  degrees  of 
silence,  even  in  country,  by  day  and  night.  At  a quarter 

59 


6o 


STOWE  NOTES 


past  eight,  birds— mountain-side,  the  valley,  ringing 
with  answering  calls.  Later  (a  thrush?)  a soft  musical 
call  out  of  the  darkening  woods. 

Spider  webs  in  the  air;  winged  things— moths— 
flying,  a large  one  fluttering  in  front  of  my  eyes.  Sweet 
scents.  Gurgling,  tinkling  waterfalls.  Quantities  of 
fireflies— hillside  spangled— on  grassy  mound,  dancing 
under  the  moon. 


AUGUST 


Yesterday,  under  a sky  of  portentous  rain,  I walked 
in  the  west  pasture;  indeed  a scattering  of  cold  drops 
was  in  the  air,  and  the  wind  blew  by  puffs  and  flurries 
from  the  south.  I stopped  before  a thicket  of  sumach 
that  stood  arrayed  on  the  slope  like  a band  of  green- 
coated  warriors,  each  crest  conspicuous  with  its  crimson- 
red  cockade.  Suddenly  there  was  a stir  and  commotion 
in  the  silent  ranks,  and  the  gust,  upturning  the  pale 
under  sides  of  the  leaves,  passed  like  a shivering  gleam 
of  swords  among  them— a martial  salute,  most  thrilling 
and  dramatic. 

On  the  Mountain  I saw  young  redpolls  among  the 
dwarfed  balsams  at  the  very  summit.  It  is  curious  that 
they  should  breed  there.* 

Here,  from  the  tent  the  other  day,  young  snowbirds 
in  the  branches  of  the  pine.  And  yesterday  evening,  fol- 
lowing a high  frog-like  note,  I found  on  the  twigs  of  a 
raspberry  bush  a little  round  soft  yellow-brown  ball, 
checked  off  like  a large  variety  of  raspberry.  It  was  a 
little  goldfinch,  its  note  an  exceeding  high-pitched,  in- 
fantile, innocent  sound,  an  unmodulated  repetition  of 

* Possibly  these  were  pine  siskins,  as  there  is  no  record  of  redpolls  breeding 
in  New  England.  [ The  editor  is  indebted  to  Mr.  Francis  H.  Allen  for  sugges- 
tions in  footnotes  on  pages  44,  45,  57,  61,  and  163.] 

61 


62 


STOWE  NOTES 


“ba-bee,  ba-bee,  ba-bee.”  It  made  no  effort  to  avoid  my 
grasp,  and  nestled  quietly  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand. 
Only  when  I showed  it  the  canaries  in  their  cage  did  it 
struggle  and  utter  its  little  call,  evidently  mistaking  the 
canary  for  its  parent. 

Going  back  into  the  road  to  replace  this  one  on  its 
raspberry  bush,  I found  another ; but  the  second,  though 
apparently  of  the  same  brood,  was  larger  and  better  able 
to  use  its  wings. 

I think  perhaps  at  this  time  of  year  that  the  ash  is  the 
most  vividly  green  of  any  tree. 


OCTOBER 


This  afternoon  in  the  swamp,  where  the  south  wind 
stirred  the  remaining  leaves  of  the  birches  and  lifted  the 
flat  sprays  of  hemlock  and  fir,  looking  southward  the 
light  was  soft  and  glittering  on  the  moving  foliage,  and 
made  of  the  naked  twigs  a silver  net,  like  a spider's  web. 
The  voices  of  the  red  squirrel,  of  the  snowbird,  and  the 
nuthatch  and  the  drum  of  the  woodpecker  were  heard. 
From  beneath  a fallen  spruce  a rabbit  started  and  leaped 
in  a wide  circle,  pausing  at  shelter  by  a hemlock  stump  or 
among  the  debris  of  a fallen  tree,  sitting  erect  with  ears 
laid  back.  No  hint  yet  of  winter  in  her  coat.  A young 
white  pine  tree,  smooth  of  bark,  slim  and  tapering,  with 
boughs  of  a bright  green— the  brightest  piece  of  color  in 
the  swamp— lay  half -uprooted  by  the  heavy  wind  of  last 
Saturday. 

To-night  a filmy  thickening  of  the  air,  a blue  haze 
upon  the  mountains,  soft  but  bright;  against  this,  the 
dark  forms  of  young  spruces,  the  curving  lines  and 
triangles  of  bare  boughs,  the  pale  surface  of  the  pasture ; 
above,  a moon  less  bright,  but  more  golden  in  color,  and 
surrounded  by  a circle  of  faint  radiance. 

The  sunset  very  beautiful,  lilac,  purple,  magenta, 
those  reposeful  combinations  of  red  and  blue  predomi- 
nating— the  clouds  long,  flimsy,  scattered  and  wild  in 
distribution,  like  mares’-tails. 

Much  charm  in  the  evening,  something  caressing, 
yet  startling,  in  the  soft  but  gusty  wind ; there  is  mystery 
with  repose,  and  yet  a sense  of  hurry  and  flutter. 


63 


NOVEMBER 


To-day  has  been  cloudy,  with  a southeast  wind. 
Passed  over  elevated  and  lonely  road  that  commands  an 
extended  view — to-day  a waste  of  cloudy  darkness.  The 
hills,  when  not  wholly  obscured  in  the  mist,  were  dark 
purple  below  an  inky  sky;  sometimes  the  patches  of 
naked  woods  showed  pale  upon  the  landscape,  which 
about  sunset  time  was  sunk  in  portentous  gloom. 

Later  the  wind  increased,  the  air  was  filled  with  the 
roar  of  the  distant  woods.  The  pine  before  the  door 
tossed  and  surged,  and  the  wind  rushed  through  it  with 
the  sound  of  a mighty  torrent.  The  naked  trees  joined 
the  uproar  in  a hollow  rumble,  like  the  roll  of  drums. 
Dead  leaves  rose  and  spun  in  the  air,  speeding  toward 
one  out  of  the  darkening  mist. 

To-day  saw  a young  or  very  tame  snow  bunting. 

This  morning  showed  a gray  world  and  a heavy  sky. 
Out  driving,  the  loose  snow  proved  a difficulty,  balling 
heavily  on  Polly's  hoofs.  Clearing  in  afternoon ; shafts 
of  gleaming  sunlight  across  the  valley.  Little  hemlocks 
and  conical  spruces  snow-encrusted,  snow  tracing  on  the 
edge  of  the  woods  following  branch  and  twig.  Later, 
patches  of  blue  sky,  and  beautiful  towering  cloud-forms. 
Went  down  the  road,  tempted  by  the  tameness  of  the 
snow  bunting  that  for  several  days  has  made  it  her 

64 


NOVEMBER 


65 


haunt.  I took  bread  with  me  in  the  hope  of  feeding  her. 
She  would  allow  me  to  approach  within  a few  yards  and 
throw  crumbs  almost  upon  her,  when,  taking  fright,  she 
would  spread  her  glancing  white  wings  and  gain  a safer 
distance  with  a swift  low  flight. 

On  the  promise  of  a fine  sunset,  walked  toward  the 
Governor’s  woods.  There,  among  bare  trees,  still  in  the 
cold  twilight,  beyond  their  black  boughs  I saw  the  “cold 
fire”  of  a winter  sunset— Romeo’s  fantastic  coupling  of 
opposites  made  truth. 

The  wood  was  silent;  although  a faint  wind  was 
blowing,  the  delicate  twigs  were  stiff  and  motionless, 
finely  drawn  on  the  sunset,  where  the  general  amber  dis- 
persion of  light  was  broken  by  dark  and  solid  clouds,  and 
on  the  crown  of  the  hills  glowed  a bright  metallic  red — 
almost  rosy. 

Across  the  fields,  home.  Little  grassy  tracks  in  the 
snow  mark  the  peregrinations  of  the  calves  and  horses. 
The  Mountain  shows  vast  and  hoary.  The  eye  with  de- 
light follows  on,  over  snowy  track  and  dusky  wood,  far 
to  the  blue  wave  of  the  northern  hills. 

I look  back  at  the  glowing  sky  and  the  leafless  tree- 
tops;  then  at  the  dark  rich  loam,  newly  turned  by  the 
plow,  at  the  snow-covered  pasture— its  wide  sweep  and 
cold  bare  outline  against  the  sky.  Winter!  it  is  a word 
to  conjure  with.  I felt  an  impulse  of  delight,  vague  as 
instinct,  tugging  at  my  heart.  Almost  I begin  to  hold 
opinion  with  Pythagoras,  that  in  some  previous  exis- 
tence I knew  another  life— that  of  some  wood-haunting, 
winter-loving  creature. 

To-day  Mr.  Cobb  showed  me  a mink  and  a fox  skin; 


66 


STOWE  NOTES 


Henry  trapped  both  animals  near  the  farm.  The  foxes 
cross  the  ridge  of  the  hill,  passing  from  one  wood  to  the 
other.  Henry  caught  two  last  night. 

Went  with  Mr.  Cobb  to  his  sugar-house,  which  is 
being  fitted  to  receive  a second  evaporator.  He  has  eight 
hundred  tin  buckets  and  pipes.  Last  year  tapped  nine 
hundred  trees.  Sometimes,  he  says,  when  the  sap  is 
running  well,  one  can  hear  it  fall,  tap,  tap,  into  the  pails 
all  about  one  in  the  wood. 

A rainy  dull  November  day;  wind  from  the  south. 

About  a quarter  past  three,  walk.  Thermometer  in 
the  neighborhood  of  forty-two  degrees.  No  rain. 
Slightly  condensing  mists,  hanging  low  on  the  hills. 
Over  the  wet  and  leathery  surface  of  fallen  leaves  in  the 
dim  and  indistinct  wood,  the  faint  light,  in  the  absence 
of  shadow  that  so  helps  the  eye  in  relation  to  form  and 
limit,  made  the  wood  as  indecisive  as  twilight. 

Southward  I heard  voices  and  the  fall  of  an  axe— 
sometimes  clear  and  sharp,  stroke  on  stroke,  with  a slight 
ringing  reverberation,  sometimes  muffled. 

I came  out  on  the  pasture,  which  I call  the  region  of 
Christmas  trees.  The  small  full  spruces  looked  soft  and 
furry  in  the  mist,  and  very  dark.  The  woods  in  the  dis- 
tance were  a pale  mauve  tint,  the  evergreens  bluish ; they 
seem  taller. 

Sounds : 

The  voice  of  the  hired  man  directing  the  plow.  Below 
a certain  degree  in  the  sound  the  voice  occasions  no  re- 
sponse, but  when  raised  loud  and  harsh  the  echo  rattles 
in  the  thin  belt  of  trees  by  the  swamp.  The  grinding  of 


NOVEMBER 


67 


the  plow  in  the  furrows  can  be  distinctly  heard  a hundred 
yards  away.  It  is  the  voice  of  angry  expostulation  that 
forces  the  echo.  A note  of  satisfaction,  of  cheery  en- 
couragement, drops  musically  and  sinks  on  the  damp  air. 

A squirrel’s  bark  from  the  swamp  sounds  clear  and 
loud,  but  the  whistling  and  purring  interlude  comes  very 
faintly.  The  note  of  a chickadee,  so  indistinct  as  to  be  a 
characterless  sibilant,  something  like  the  “answering 
shrill  of  the  gauze-winged  katydid”  heard  from  a dis- 
tance of  a summer  night. 

Home  by  the  road,  passing  the  meadow,  where  some 
cows  are  waiting  at  the  gate.  Among  them  is  a partly 
Jersey  heifer  with  a peculiar  development  of  a winter 
coat,  a growth  of  longish  hairs  on  the  forehead,  like  a 
horse’s  forelock.  They  are  very  tame,  gentle,  and 
curious.  They  press  up  to  the  fence,  thrust  their  heads 
through  the  bars  to  sniff  my  boots  and  lick  my  coat. 

While  I was  watching  the  cows,  the  oxen  came  down 
the  road  over  the  hill  from  plowing.  Being  large,  white, 
red-flecked  Durhams,  they  are  conspicuous  gaunt  forms 
in  the  muffling  twilight,  the  large  iron  ring  on  the  yoke 
clanking  louder  as  they  approach. 


DECEMBER 


This  morning  there  was  a high  wind  from  the  south- 
southwest.  Nature  in  these  moods  is  satisfying:  no 
matter  how  high  she  raves,  she  cannot  rant ; you  are  al- 
ways conscious  of  reserved  power,  as  actors  say.  The 
leaping  snowflakes  vaulting  the  stone  wall  opposite,  and 
flying  straight  at  the  windows,  seem  intelligently  par- 
ticipant in  the  exultation  of  the  storm,  and  yet,  out  of  the 
direct  force  of  the  wind,  they  circle  slowly,  and  meet  the 
ground  with  a soft  conclusive  touch  that  seems  to  indi- 
cate a grateful  sense  of  repose. 

This  southwest  wind  sometimes  develops  a spirit  too 
boisterous  for  the  comfort  and  safety  of  many  of  Na- 
ture’s children.  The  white  pine  in  front  of  the  door  lost 
one  of  its  heavy  under  branches,  which,  being  weighted 
with  ice,  snapped  in  too  rough  a greeting  of  the  wind. 
Yet  they  seem  on  excellent  terms — nevertheless  it  is  the 
steady  icy  flow  of  the  north  wind  that  induces  the  pine’s 
best  music. 

Among  the  Pilgrims.  I sit  on  a stump  at  the  north- 
ern edge  of  the  wood,  and  look  far  over  the  dun  fields 
and  white  roads  to  the  Eden  mountains.  The  northern 
sky  imitates  the  colors  of  the  landscape,  dun  and  dark 
blue,  and  just  at  the  very  point  of  north  there  is  a break 
in  the  clouds,  and  a clear  and  precious  glimpse  of  pale 

68 


Hogback  at  Sunset 


DECEMBER 


69 


blue  sky.  The  northeastern  horizon  has  the  appearance 
of  a summer  storm,  the  black  ragged  curtain  overhang- 
ing a blank  illuminated  sheet  of  gray,  as  of  rain.  Against 
this,  the  bare  boughs  and  few  tawny  beech  leaves  present 
a picture  that  is  a very  vivid  recalling  of  autumn. 

There  is  an  old  boulder  in  the  Pilgrim  woods,  and 
the  mouldering  mossy  sides  are  further  softened  by  the 
powdery  ridges  of  snow.  I saw  some  green  ferns. 

A small  but  half-blasted  ironwood  (hop-hornbeam) 
punctured  in  circles  with  most  curious  precision.  Wood- 
peckers ? I noticed  the  newer  punctures  followed  on  the 
trunk  in  spirals. 

On  the  rocky  pasture,  the  mosses  in  part  absorb  the 
snow,  which  falls  mostly  in  a half-melted  form  more  like 
hail,  into  their  spongy  interstices.  They  are  therefore 
partly  on  the  surface  of  things,  enough  to  hint  at  their 
form  and  color.  The  dry  pale  green,  the  purplish  brown, 
and  the  lilac  have  thus  the  most  beautiful  appearance, 
apparently  just  silvered  over  by  the  snow.  As  a surface 
to  walk  upon,  they  are  a luxury  greater  than  a Turkey 
carpet,  being  as  soft,  and  of  more  elasticity. 

Under  the  large  and  generous-reaching  white  pine 
I sit,  leaning  against  the  trunk,  and  listen  to  the  wind. 
There  is  no  tree  that  gives  so  soft,  so  sonorous  a sound, 
particularly  in  the  higher  (tenor?)  tones. 

The  other  day  I saw  a pine  grosbeak  in  the  cranberry 
bush  in  front  of  the  house.  He  seemed  very  tame.  I 
was  stealing  past  him  to  go  in  and  get  my  glass,  but  just 
then  two  flew  out  from  the  pine  close  at  hand,  and  he 
took  flight  with  them.  The  suddenness  of  their  flight 


70 


STOWE  NOTES 


suggested  the  alacrity  of  alarm ; they  sprang  into  the  air, 
and  flew  rapidly  southward,  with  a plaintive  and  broken 
cry. 

This  morning  clear  and  beautiful;  thermometer 
about  thirty-two  degrees,  cold  steady  northwest  wind. 

In  the  afternoon  to  the  village.  At  the  blacksmith’s 
shop,  waiting  for  Polly’s  shoes  to  be  changed  and  the 
points  sharpened.  The  forges  worked  by  means  of  old- 
fashioned  bellows ; the  accumulation  of  odd  bits  of  scrap- 
iron,  the  inevitable  environment  of  every  blacksmith,  so 
universal  and  so  unused  that  it  seems  a kind  of  conven- 
tional setting— stage  properties. 

I took  the  opportunity  to  walk  up  F.’s  hill,  where  I 
have  not  been  now  for  over  a year.  The  moment  I set 
foot  in  the  little  plateau,  its  peculiar  charm  was  upon 
me.  I think  of  all  places  this  must  always  seem  the  most 
beautiful  to  me.  I picked  a few  white  violet  leaves  half 
hidden  under  the  snow,  where  the  white  violets  have 
never  failed  me  before. 

I took  off  my  coat,  for  it  is  always  warm  and  balmy 
in  this  spot,  sheltered  from  winds  (all  except  the  north- 
east), and  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  naked  old 
maples.  The  view  was  at  once  strange  and  familiar. 
The  bare  trees  threw  open  much  that  was  formerly  ob- 
scure, the  course  of  the  river  in  particular.  The  only 
snow  visible  from  this  point  lies  along  the  pastures  on 
the  higher  slopes  of  Hogback,  the  valley  a stretch  of 
bare  fields,  in  which  the  evergreens  of  the  graveyard  are 
prominent.  I walked  around  the  plateau  and  renewed 
my  acquaintance  with  the  trees,  the  gnarled  old  apple 
trees,  the  majestic  group  of  maples  in  the  centre,  the 


DECEMBER  71 

white  birch,  aspens,  and  cherries  that  crown  the  knoll  at 
the  southern  extremity,  and  the  alder  bush  near  by. 

I even  climbed  the  crest  in  search  of  a beech  that  I 
once  thought  of  painting,  and  so  had  a view  of  snow- 
crowned  Mansfield.  I was  sorry  to  see  one  of  the  old 
ashes  on  the  slope  uprooted  and  prostrate.  But  nowhere 
was  there  the  trace  of  an  axe.  It  is  this  retired  repose- 
ful character  that  makes  this  hill  so  charming.  It  seems 
to  be  a place  overlooked  and  neglected— a forgotten 
nook.  The  farm  is  too  much  a farm,  the  fields  are 
fenced  carefully  to  their  limit,  and  every  woody  spot  has 
its  barrier  close  in  its  shadow;  but  here  fences  are  a 
decayed  institution : the  pasture  gives  freely  upon  wood 
and  orchard. 

What  lends  an  added  charm  to  this  solitary  nook  and 
makes  its  repose  doubly  appreciable  is  that  although  it  is 
so  cozily  hidden,  and  seems  to  lie  lonely,  belted  with  hill 
and  wood  and  open  only  to  the  sky,  yet  the  sounds  of  the 
village  penetrate  its  quiet;  they  rise  to  it  softened  by 
distance— the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  rattle  of  wagons, 
the  ringing  of  forges. 

Waiting  for  Leon  at  the  schoolhouse,  looking  across 
the  hotel  grounds,  I saw  the  clouds  rosy-tinged  over  the 
western  hills.  This  was  no  less  the  revivifying  of  old 
and  lovely  impressions. 

Coming  out  from  the  wood  on  the  meadow  east  of 
the  farm  buildings,  elevated  much  above  them,  a perfect 
picture  of  Winter — the  sky  a uniform  leaden  gray,  the 
mountains  slaty-blue  against  it,  the  snowy  outline  of 
Mansfield,  that  from  this  point  holds  the  centre  of  the 


72 


STOWE  NOTES 


picture  with  an  effect  of  towering  grandeur,  faintly  in- 
dicated. The  sun  must  already  have  set;  there  is  no 
light  in  the  southwest,  but  directly  south  there  is  a faint 
gleam.  The  thin  smoke  from  the  farm  rises  against  the 
Mountain;  the  picture  is  rapidly  dissolved  into  the 
wintry  dusk. 

One  of  the  men  came  down  from  the  barn,  and  before 
going  indoors  brushed  his  boots  off  with  a broom  that  is 
set  in  the  back  porch  for  that  purpose,  accompanying 
himself  with  his  tuneless  jerky  whistling — a primitive 
strain,  a few  notes  doubtfully  accordant,  which,  like  the 
jarring  tones  of  the  hard-handed  men  of  Athens,  seemed 
the  air  expressive  of  the  hired  man.  After  he  had  closed 
the  door,  some  disjointed  notes  came  somewhat  fainter, 
“heard  off,”  as  after  an  exit,  when  the  stage  is  left 
vacant. 

This  afternoon  the  wind  blew  steadily,  but  with  a 
soft  touch,  from  the  southwest.  Out  walking  in  the 
west  pasture.  The  evergreens  are  tossed  violently  in  the 
wind,  the  pines  turn  pale,  the  hemlocks  are  touched  with 
silver,  only  the  spruces  never  change  color;  there  is 
something  admirable  in  their  unchanging  vividness  of 
hue,  a suggestion  of  sturdy  indifference.  The  hemlocks 
seem  to  acknowledge  a chill  in  the  wind;  as  it  stirs  in 
their  branches  with  a silvery  gleam,  they  seem  to  shiver. 
How  velvety  they  appear,  looking  north  on  the  side  ex- 
posed to  the  ruffling  gust ! 

The  mountains  are  sharply  outlined — Camel's  Hump 
rises  into  the  exultant  windy  sky,  against  the  broken 
golden  lights,  under  the  clouds  southward.  To  the  north 


DECEMBER 


73 


the  sky  is  open,  crossed  by  massive  scattered  clouds. 
From  time  to  time  the  sun  bursts  out,  with  a strength 
that  fairly  makes  one  open  one’s  eyes.  The  landscape 
glows;  every  hint  of  color  is  revealed  to  the  utmost.  I 
come  upon  two  old  balsam  poplars  of  considerable  size, 
whose  ragged  acute-angled  boughs  are  interesting 
against  the  sky — the  moving  clouds.  I notice  a chick- 
adee on  a dead  tree,  and  afterward  flying  among  the 
evergreens.  He  is  not  lugubrious  to-day,  with  his 
hoarse  “deedeedeedee” ; he  flies  blithely,  uttering  an 
elastic  chirp.  He  is  busy  earning  his  living — or  getting 
his  dessert.  He  earns  it  by  his  beauty  and  his  courage. 
He  is  an  admirable  spectacle  of  courageous  innocence; 
a lovely  little  bird. 

It  is  an  unspeakable  delight  to  be  out  to-day,  to  feel 
the  rush  and  hear  the  tumult  of  the  wind. 

At  the  farm  are  two  fan-tailed  pigeons,  late  importa- 
tions from  Ohio.  They  are  out  sunning  themselves  and 
fluttering  on  the  windy  ridge  of  the  stable.  They  per- 
haps think  it  is  spring. 

Just  before  sunset  there  was  a strong  golden  glow 
upon  the  woods  northward,  and  the  shadows  became,  by 
contrast,  a clear  blue. 

I was  going  to  say  a memorable  sunset;  but  it  is 
difficult  to  keep  a sunset  in  memory,  no  matter  how 
deeply  one  may  be  impressed  at  the  time.  It  is  as  if  an 
exquisite  and  complex  melody  should  be  played  once,  and 
only  once. 

There  are  sunsets  that  seem  peculiar  to  the  season, 
and  some  that  express  a mood  appealing  to  certain  emo- 
tions : it  may  be  that  it  is  a matter  of  memory  and  asso- 


74 


STOWE  NOTES 


ciation.  But  this  sunset  (as  all  sunsets  that  disclose, 
beyond  heavy  clouds,  a clear  and  pale  illumined  space— 
an  unfathomable,  illimitable  sea  of  light)  is,  in  my  mind, 
as  the  background  and  atmosphere  of  Romance. 

I was  suddenly  aware  of  the  crescent  moon,  white 
when  I first  spied  it,  but  after  I had  gone  indoors  it  shone 
with  a clear  and  cold  splendor. 

Long  after  the  heavier  masses  of  clouds  had  lost 
their  gold  edges  and  were  left  in  outer  darkness,  small 
shredded  fragments,  apparently  behind  them,  were  of  a 
delicate  pink,  against  the  blue  and  lovely  green  of  the 
illumined  sky. 

Last  night  an  exceedingly  high  wind  with  some  snow 
—a  good  deal  drifted. 

At  noon  to-day  I saw  a flock  of  whitewings  sweep 
across  the  garden,  truly  like  large  snowflakes,  only  they 
sped  in  the  eye  of  the  wind.  The  direction  they  took  was 
southwesterly.  I walked  over  the  south  pasture  to  the 
wood,  in  hope  of  getting  another  glimpse  of  them,  but 
without  success.  As  soon  as  the  thermometer  sinks  to 
the  neighborhood  of  zero  (its  highest  was  eight  degrees 
to-day,  from  noon  to  half  past  three)  and  the  winds 
bluster,  as  soon  as  the  climate  becomes  temperate  from 
their  point  of  view,  they  come  speeding  down  from  the 
terrible  arctic  solitudes. 

Stepping  out  into  the  wind  to-day  was  like  a plunge 
in  cold  water — it  took  my  breath  away. 

This  evening  the  wind  seems  to  have  abated  its  force; 
the  stars  and  the  crescent  moon  shine  tranquil  and  bril- 
liant. 


DECEMBER 


75 


Yesterday  was  cold  but  windless,  with  a slow  con- 
tinuous fall  of  minute  star-shaped  crystals,  the  flake  at 
its  finest. 

To-day  a high  wind;  I notice  again  that  hollow 
sound,  as  of  the  roll  of  muffled  drums,  that  the  wind 
makes  in  near  leafless  trees.  The  sugar-wood  roared 
like  the  surf  after  a storm,  with  an  underlying  deep  tone, 
and  sometimes  angrily  as  the  grasping  undertow  on  a 
pebbly  strand. 

To-day  noticed  a blue  jay  hopping  about  in  the  door- 
yard.  The  black  crest  is  velvety;  the  blue  along  the 
neck,  shoulders,  and  back  is  a beautiful  color,  but  dull 
and  purplish.  The  brilliancy  of  the  plumage  is  in  the 
bright  gleaming  metallic  blue  of  the  wings  and  tail.  A 
gorgeous  bird;  its  splendid  plumage  is  a delight  to  the 
eye,  but  its  sly  ways,  its  dandified  air,  and  its  harsh  note 
destroy  your  sympathy.  It  is  not  classed  among  the 
cherished  of  Nature’s  wild  creatures. 

The  other  night,  after  sunset,  a man  passed  down 
the  road,  a muffled  figure,  dark  and  obscure;  the  moon 
had  not  yet  risen,  but  there  was  a kind  of  pale  brightness 
that  seemed  rather  to  emanate  from  the  ground  (snow- 
covered)  than  from  the  sky;  and  the  indistinct  form  re- 
ceived a singular  significance  from  the  gleaming  steel 
head  of  the  axe  slung  over  his  shoulder.  The  more  ob- 
scure the  man’s  form,  the  more  significant  this  cold  and 
sinister  gleam. 

In  the  afternoon  a flock  of  snow  buntings  in  the 
mowing,  toddling  in  the  snow,  fighting,  flirting  their 


76 


STOWE  NOTES 


wings,  and  suddenly  taking  fright,  or  on  a common  im- 
pulse rising  in  a cloud  and  sweeping  over  the  fields.  In 
the  snow  they  did  not  appear  to  be  very  white— their 
brown  markings  and  the  black  wing-bars  were  most  ap- 
parent; but  in  flight,  against  the  dark  sky  and  darker 
wood,  the  display  of  white  wings  was  dazzling. 

This  morning  there  was  a soft  feeling  in  the  air,  a 
moist  touch  in  the  wind,  that  was  spring-like. 

This  afternoon  the  sun  came  out  and  threw  lines  of 
brilliant  light  across  the  dark  hills.  A slight  and  inter- 
mittent fall  of  snow,  a few  flakes  floating  on  the  edge  of 
the  sunshine.  The  deep  yellows  of  the  near  fields  and 
the  excessive  blueness  of  the  distance  give  the  landscape 
at  this  time  of  the  year  peculiar  interest,  the  transitions 
being  sudden. 

The  farms  in  the  valley  on  the  road  that  crosses  to 
West  Hill  lie  very  pleasantly.  A farm  ought  to  suggest, 
better  than  any  other  collection  of  buildings  whatever,  a 
reposeful  permanence.  These  farms  that  lie  in  the  very 
palm  and  peaceful  centre  of  the  valley  give  this  impres- 
sion, lacking  to  those  that  seem  to  cling  uneasily  to  hill- 
sides. 

Besides  this,  the  formation  of  the  land  at  this  spot 
helps  the  impression.  The  mountains  rise  high  on  the 
east  and  west,  and  yet  at  breathing  distances;  to  the 
south  they  dip  and  meet  and  seem  to  form  a notch,  or 
narrow  and  difficult  channel  to  the  outer  world,  and 
crowning  the  depression,  of  a fainter  blue  to  indicate  its 
distance,  rises  the  peak  of  Camel's  Hump.  The  valley 


DECEMBER  77 

widens  and  lies  open  to  the  north,  bounded  by  a blue 
wave  of  hills,  low  on  the  distant  horizon. 

Looking  north  gives  wings  to  the  imagination,  and, 
lacking  this  outlet,  the  present  nestling  would  be  perhaps 
imprisonment. 

There  are  beautiful  patches  of  woodland  here,  the 
maples  much  intermixed  with  evergreens,  which  show 
in  interesting  contrast  upon  the  purple  shadow  of  the 
underwood  scenes. 

Rain  and  mist. 

The  evergreens  along  the  ridge  east  of  the  Iron 
Spring  road  are  beautiful.  They  assert  themselves 
nobly  on  this  naked  landscape.  The  deciduous  trees 
among  them  are  faint  as  smoke— a reddish  cloud  that 
hovers  in  among  the  solid  green  branches.  There  are 
several  openings  into  this  wood,  that  yawn  like  the 
mouths  of  caverns  and  are  infinitely  suggestive— they 
invite  your  fancy,  they  seem  the  openings  into  Fairy- 
land, the  introduction  to  a thrilling  robber  story. 

Mingled  with  the  purple  cloud  of  twigs,  wreaths  of 
mist  float  among  the  spruces  and  hemlocks. 

Of  the  cloudy  appearance  of  twigs,  the  best  effect  is 
perhaps  in  apple  orchards,  where  the  trunks  (grayish  in 
clear,  and  black  in  rainy  weather)  seem  set  about  by  a 
kind  of  dusky  halo. 

The  sober  hues  of  this  landscape,  especially  of  the 
distance,  are  very  restful,  the  proper  tone  after  the  glare 
of  snow-covered  fields.  The  first  thaw  revealed  green 
grass  in  many  places;  this  time  (thaw  number  two) 
there  are  none  such,  but  all  a dull  and  sombre  dun  color. 


78 


STOWE  NOTES 


The  fields  where  grain  has  been  cut,  wheat  or  barley  or 
oats,  show  the  whitish  stalks,  like  the  edge  of  ruffled 
velvet.  The  pastures  (palest  in  summer)  are  richest  in 
color  now ; where  a kind  of  sorrel  has  grown  they  show  a 
dull  orange,  the  once  green  brakes  now  brown  and 
orange  in  hue. 

The  willows  are  yellow— a point  of  color  in  the  land- 
scape ; among  them  are  many  alders,  with  their  dark  red 
catkins,  that  Thoreau  held  so  dear. 

Not  long  ago,  on  looking  out  at  my  window  facing 
eastward  toward  the  sun,  I saw  the  trees  in  a delicate 
frost  foliage  of  a cloudy  whiteness  in  the  distance,  and 
near  at  hand  the  boughs  were  ropes  of  silver,  flashing 
forth  brilliant  diamond  sparkles. 

On  examining  this  phenomenon  an  hour  later,  I 
found  every  branch  and  twig  set  with  flat  crystals, 
disposed  at  every  conceivable  angle,  and,  in  whatever 
view  regarded,  reflecting  the  light  with  dazzling  bril- 
liancy. 

This  strange  appearance  may  have  been  due  to  a 
sudden  fall  of  temperature,  this  crystal  shower  with 
which  the  air  is  filled  adhering  as  it  touched,  the  tem- 
perature of  the  trees  being  gradually  affected  by  the 
increased  cold. 

It  is  not  at  all  remarkable  that  these  winter 
phenomena  of  frosts  should  be  in  popular  fancy  attrib- 
uted to  an  unnatural  agency,  for  the  effect  is  so  artificial, 
or  strikes  one  as  so,  in  the  suddenness  of  its  execution, 
and  in  its  suggestion  of  forms  achieved  in  the  deliberate 


DECEMBER 


79 


processes  of  Nature  or  Art.  So  the  arboreal  world 
seemed  in  a night  to  have  sprouted  into  spring  foliage, 
or  on  nearer  observation  to  have  been,  by  some  miracle 
of  Art,  silvered  and  bejewelled. 

Every  day  I am  delighted  at  the  appearance  of  the 
cranberry  bush  in  the  dooryard.  Every  leaf  has  left 
long  ago,  but  the  clustering  crimson  cranberries  remain, 
defying  frost  and  thaw,  unwithered,  and  of  as  bright  a 
color  as  when  they  first  ripened  in  the  autumn. 

Two  geese  or  loons  flying  north-northwest,  high,  in 
a bee-line  to  the  Mountain.  Is  a thaw  at  hand?  Have 
they  any  notification  that  the  lake  will  open  to  receive 
them? 

It  was  at  sunset  when  I drove  up  the  hill,  and  sud- 
denly, startled  by  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells,  a large  flock 
of  birds  left  the  ground,  springing  up  from  the  snowy 
undulations  of  a pasture,  and  by  the  sudden  display  of 
white  wings  I knew  them  for  snow  buntings.  They  flew 
vigorously,  some  fluttering,  dropping  down  the  air,  and 
dashing  on  again  like  flakes  on  a wild  northwest  wind, 
precipitated  southward. 

The  moon  is  well  named  Diana— of  so  cold  and  im- 
passive a countenance.  The  stars  seem  to  express  much 
more:  they  twinkle  with  a friendly  brightness. 

I learn  that  it  was  twelve  degrees  this  morning  in  the 
village. 

The  geese  were  no  geese  in  respect  of  their  wisdom — 
they  were  well  informed:  a soft  south  wind,  rain,  and 
thawing  follow  on  their  flight. 


8o 


STOWE  NOTES 


The  thaw  has  a purple-blue  sky,  and  a glassiness  and 
somewhat  yellowish  tint  on  the  face  of  the  snow. 

No  blue  jays.  To  exemplify  the  rarity  of  birds  just 
now,  I may  mention  that  my  horse  shied  at  a chickadee 
that  darted  down  from  a barn  roof  abutting  on  the  side 
of  the  road. 

A sudden  change  to  extreme  cold.  Last  night  the 
south  wind  made  a great  deal  of  noise  in  the  trees  out- 
side of  my  window  and  under  the  eaves,  but  it  did  not 
seem,  after  all,  to  be  blowing  very  hard.  The  air  was 
soft,  and  not  cold.  The  rain  pattered  on  the  glass.  The 
moonlight  that  filtered  through  the  clouds,  by  reflection 
from  the  melting  snow,  gave  considerable  brightness  to 
the  night.  There  were  light  suggestive  noises  in  and 
out  of  doors. 

A note  for  clear  days : Smoke  in  a winter  landscape, 
against  the  earth,  blue ; against  the  sky,  purple. 

Windless,  still,  absolutely  clear. 

The  transitions  in  color  on  the  even  surface  of  the 
snow  being  sharper,  more  sudden,  than  such  variations 
in  summer,  or  at  any  other  time  of  year,  give  the  impres- 
sion of  an  unusual  amount  of  color  in  a winter  landscape ; 
the  distance  is  more  complex  than  at  other  seasons. 
Shadows  thrown  from  the  belts  of  purple  woodland  are 
a clear  light  blue;  where  the  wind  has  packed  the  snow 
to  form  a crust,  the  surface  presents  a purple  or  pinkish 
shade ; the  drifting  surface  snow  is  a yellow- white  near 
at  hand,  in  the  distance  threading  the  blue  or  purple 
fields  with  lines  of  golden  pink. 


DECEMBER 


81 


How  colorless  are  these  winter  skies ! It  is  only  by 
looking  at  the  very  apex  of  the  sky  that  you  are  fully 
convinced  of  its  blueness.  The  mountains  bathe  in  a 
cold  glory.  It  falls  upon  them  breathlessly  cold.  They 
are  frozen,  as  completely  tranced  in  it  as  the  sapless  trees. 

The  horizon  sparkles  in  a flood  of  sunshine,  cold, 
cold  as  the  streamers  of  the  northern  lights. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  NOTE-BOOKS 
1887-1888 


THE  SOUTH 


Thomasville,  Georgia, 

March. 

The  trains  loiter  in  as  leisurely  a fashion  as  in  Ver- 
mont. Since  from  Wilmington,  North  Carolina,  the 
country  has  undergone  no  change  in  general  charac- 
teristics—the  inevitable  pine,  the  clearing  half  cleared, 
with  blackened  stumps  protruding  at  short  intervals ; the 
wretched  negro  hovels,  in  so  many  cases  no  better  than 
the  Irish  shanties  of  the  vacant  upper  part  of  New  York, 
often  in  appearance  of  as  evil  a construction  as  the  out- 
buildings, which  for  the  most  part  seem  to  consist  of  a 
chicken-house,  etc. ; the  glassless  windows,  wooden  shut- 
ters being  the  substitute;  the  mud  chimneys;  the  en- 
closure of  rail  fences.  Peach  trees,  with  their  soft 
rose-colored  blossoms,  alone  give  any  touch  of  comfort 
to  the  dismal  scenery. 

The  atmosphere  was  hazy  with  the  continual  burning 
for  clearings,  which  goes  on  day  and  night.  In  many 
places,  where  the  pertinacity  with  which  the  pines  have 
held  their  ground  has  triumphed  over  the  feeble  enemy, 
the  trunks  stand  blackened;  the  method  seems  to  be  to 
kindle  a fire  and  trust  that  a clearing  may  be  effected. 
The  pines,  growing  densely,  branch  meagrely  even  at 
the  summit.  Many  of  them  are  marked — the  wide  open 

85 


86 


STOWE  NOTES 


scar  cut  with  a hatchet.  This  cutting  is  made  at  various 
heights  from  about  eight  feet  down  to  two.  Is  this  the 
turpentine  tapping,  or  is  it  preparatory  to  burning  out 
the  trunk  for  clearing? 

The  land  along  the  route  seemed  inhabited  almost 
exclusively  by  negroes.  After  Charlestown  there  was 
an  average  of  about  two  white  men  to  every  station, 
Saturday  evening  at  that.  In  South  Carolina,  a little 
distance  north  of  Florence,  whenever  the  train  came  to 
a standstill — it  is  hardly  accurate  to  say  “arrived  at  a 
station’'— troops  of  little  negroes  assailed  those  who 
stood  upon  the  platform,  with  entreaties  to  buy  the  wilted 
handfuls  of  flowers  they  offered  for  sale.  Among  these, 
a half-grown,  hulking,  dull  specimen  had  added  to  his 
ragged  apparel  something  novel  in  the  shape  of  an  old 
Confederate  uniform  coat,  the  brass  buttons  all  intact. 
These  boys  swarmed  and  struggled  for  the  pennies 
thrown  them,  hung  upon  the  steps  as  the  car  started,  and 
dropped  away  one  by  one  like  a swarm  of  bees,  always 
loud  and  for  the  most  part  mirthful. 

Here  at  Thomasville  they  look  to  me  a good  shade 
darker  than  along  by  Charlestown.  There  was  a min- 
gling and  a wide  variation  of  types,  but  withal  in  general 
an  element  of  red  observable,  a decided  flesh  tint — how 
local  this  expression  appears  here!  Sometimes  there 
was  a certain  suggestion  of  the  Arab  rather  than  the 
negro,  but  the  combination  of  Caucasian  feature  and 
light  coloring  is  rare.  The  race  characteristics  gener- 
ally assert  themselves  either  in  form  or  color. 

Sunrise  seen  from  back  of  train  along  the  track.  The 
swamps  on  either  hand,  pines,  and  brooding  buzzards. 


THE  SOUTH 


87 


Walk  in  pines;  some  of  great  height,  crowned  by  a 
comparatively  insignificant  tangle  of  branches,  so  wiry 
and  contorted ! They  are  to  the  character  and  direction 
of  ordinary  branches  (those  of  deciduous  trees  and  most 
evergreens  that  I know)  as  the  antennae  of  Orthoptera 
are  to  the  antennae  of  Coleoptera. 

These  are  loblolly  pines — a few  yellow  said  to  be 
intermixed.  Down  the  glimpses  on  either  hand,  but 
mostly  where  it  lies  lower  on  the  edge  of  a marshy  bit, 
the  lateral  white  bloom  of  the  dogwood  shows.  In  these 
gloomy  recesses  of  the  wood  the  moss  hangs  from  the 
boughs  of  the  pines  and  oaks,  and  the  smooth  white 
trunks  and  heavy,  dark,  large-leaved,  glassy  foliage  of 
the  magnolias  offers  a variety  to  the  eye,  weary  with  the 
endless  stretches  of  vertical  trunks. 

The  odor  of  the  pines  met  us  like  a welcome  on  the 
threshold  of  the  wood — sweet!  There  was  a steady 
breeze  from  the  north. 

Came  suddenly  upon  an  old  friend  among  many 
aliens— a beech;  the  leaves  small,  tenderly  green;  the 
trunk  lichen-stained.  Of  the  unfamiliar  trees  the  holly 
is  far  the  most  amusing,  one  vine-hung,  with  the  crisp, 
sharp-edged,  glassy,  green  leaves  starting  through  the 
dry  netted  twigs  of  the  seemingly  dead  vine.  The  tree 
about  eleven  feet  high;  the  trunk  gray,  straight,  like  the 
trunk  of  a young  forest  maple  growing  under  conditions 
of  damp  and  shadow. 

At  half  past  four  this  morning  there  was  a great 
piping  utterance  of  birds.  Trills,  harsher  low  notes,  and 
a floating,  thin,  melodious  cry — mockingbirds  perhaps. 


88 


STOWE  NOTES 


I saw  them  a-plenty  yesterday  toward  evening,  silently 
flitting  from  tree  to  tree,  showing  the  white  in  wings  and 
tail. 

The  mockingbird’s  true  note,  is  it  not  a note  in  the 
higher  scale  of  Pan’s  pipe,  the  veritable  whistle  of  a reed 
instrument?  A thin  flute-like  utterance? 

Spring  is  a rejuvenator  everywhere,  and  works  the 
same  jugglery  in  these  sombre  swamps.  There  is  the 
background,  or  rather  setting  (in  the  theatrical  sense  of 
the  word),  of  a strong,  a Southern  decadence. 

Toward  hotel  through  the  dreary  village,  where 
above  in  the  hot  sky  the  ragged  buzzards  sailed  lazily. 
This  morning  the  court  house  was  opened  by  a loud 
crying  on  the  porch— an  official  singsong,  apparently. 
Saw  a large  man  in  a light  gray  suit,  to  whom  several 
negroes  touched  their  hats,  and  whom  I guessed  to  be 
the  judge. 

The  pines  everywhere.  In  a swampy  bit,  among 
blackened  trunks  and  charred  stumps,  the  most  beautiful 
crocuses,  so  delicately  white-stemmed,  as  large  almost  as 
tulips. 

Beautiful  sunset,  the  sun  as  usual  sinking  a fiery  disk. 
Soft  little  clouds,  thin  wreaths  and  diminutive  shoals  (a 
sky  like  the  sandy  shallow  of  a brook)  all  drawn  ob- 
liquely to  the  point  of  disappearance.  Beautiful  star- 
light. 

The  upper  branches  of  a little  holly  tree  seen  to-day 
were  in  new  and  tenderly  green  leaf,  from  the  extremity 
of  the  twigs. 


THE  SOUTH 


89 


After  tea  we  watched  the  children  dancing  in  the 
parlor  of  the  Piney  Woods  Hotel.  One  little  girl,  whose 
short  curling  brown  hair,  straight  profile,  strong  chin, 
long  hands  and  feet,  suggested  the  earlier  Italian  type 
(the  mediaeval)  transmitted.  She  was  a beautiful  figure, 
so  gay,  so  gracious,  so  tenderly  graceful.  She  moved, 
or,  better,  flashed,  with  such  harmonious  speed  through 
the  dance  that  it  ceased  to  be  a commonplace  perform- 
ance. The  entire  scene— the  hotel  ball-room,  the  little 
merry  figures,  the  rollicking  old-fashioned  dance— be- 
came poetic  in  the  light  of  her  smiles,  her  bright  side 
glances,  her  quick  elastic  step,  the  dainty  dignity  of  her 
first  bow  to  her  partner,  a very  small  boy,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  lancers. 

The  loveliness  of  her  mien,  her  childish  abandon, 
that  was  always  tempered  by  the  refinement  of  a mani- 
festly delicate  nature,  breathed  a music  that  would  have 
shamed  the  unmelodious  notes  of  the  band,  had  it  not 
reclaimed  these  also  with  some  touch  of  her  magic.  This 
unconscious  little  magician,  waving  her  fairy  wand  in 
the  prosaic  environment  of  the  Piney  Woods — its  four 
walls ! 

She  seemed  to  have  a pretty  sense  of  humor  also,  as 
when  in  the  processional  figure  of  the  lancers  she  caught 
the  long  locks  of  the  little  girl  in  front  of  her  and  pre- 
tended to  be  driving.  So  clearly  a vagrant  impulse,  so 
daintily  and  merrily  done,  and  without  offense  to  the 
child ! They  were  all  smaller  than  she,  and  all  seemed  to 
feel  her  gentle  influence.  She  was  kind,  lively,  and 
withal  wise  in  her  management  of  them.  She  uncon- 
sciously held  the  gaze  of  many  in  the  room,  without  a 


90 


STOWE  NOTES 


touch  of  restraint  or  embarrassment.  What  a sight  was 
this,  worth  all  the  eloquence  of  the  greatest  modern 
preacher— a sermon,  a poem,  a thing  to  thank  God  for,, 
a sight  to  reconcile  a cynic!  For  myself,  who  am  not 
one,  I acknowledge  the  Creation  a success,  since  this  lit- 
tle girl  dances  the  lancers  of  nights. 

This  morning  I inquired  my  way  of  a fine-looking 
man  of  the  strong  lean  Southern  type.  He  declared  the 
way  I had  come  to  be  the  only  route,  but  being  prompted 
in  a low  tone  by  the  negro,  an  intelligent-looking  speci- 
men, who  occupied  the  front  seat  with  him,  he  directed 
me  to  take  the  road  (pointing)  “back  of  Mis'  Mil- 
ler's.” 

My  second  inquiry  of  a like  nature  was  addressed  to 
a wagon-load  of  darkies,  among  whom,  lazily  at  full 
length,  a heavy,  rather  brutal  white  man  was  lying — a 
light-haired,  light-eyed,  planter-looking  individual,  who 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow  to  reply.  He  was  clearly  the 
presiding  genius  of  the  group,  and  lay  so  slothfully 
among  his  black  comrades,  who  were  perched  here  and 
there  where  they  could  find  room  for  themselves,  that 
the  whole  scene  in  its  sentiment  and  detail  might  have 
occurred  before  the  war. 

Rain.  Cleared  off  in  the  afternoon,  and  I walked  in 
the  direction  of  the  pines.  The  rain  seemed  to  have  done 
a great  deal  for  the  scenery — given  it  depth,  color,  mys- 
tery, thrown  a poetic  glamour  over  it  that  is  foreign  to 
its  dry,  dusty,  every-day  aspect. 

The  mockingbirds  sang  exquisitely  after  the  rain. 


THE  SOUTH 


9i 


They  are  prodigal  of  their  song;  they  almost  cheapen  it, 
pouring  it  out  to  unappreciative  ears,  from  porch,  roof- 
tree,  and  gable-end,  with  such  unwearying  skill,  now 
soft,  now  harsh,  now  loud,  now  low,  liquid  and  shrill — 
the  most  varied  song  that  bird  ever  gave  utterance  to. 
In  the  pauses  of  the  song  of  the  nearest,  the  far-away 
whistling,  or,  better,  piping,  of  others  could  be  heard. 

The  tree  toads  seemed  also  to  lift  a voice  of  delight, 
low,  thrilling  with  the  joy  of  existence. 

By  the  negro  cabins,  heard  voices  and  laughter  and  a 
kind  of  chant,  a musical  singsong  like  the  strange  song 
of  the  little  negro  boy  heard  crossing  the  clearing  out  in 
the  woods  the  evening  before  yesterday.  His  was  a wild 
kind  of  utterance,  a succession  of  long-drawn  notes  of  a 
certain  thrilling  quality,  that  ceased  with  a melancholy 
cadence. 

Sunset,  a breaking  away  of  clouds  in  the  west,  deli- 
cate fleecy  points  touched  with  gold,  and  later  the 
crescent  moon  clear  and  palely  suggesting  the  full,  and 
the  evening  star  extraordinarily  bright.  The  moon 
hangs  with  the  horns  upward,  almost  on  a level — is  this 
due  to  our  geographical  position  ? A clear  night ; at  half 
past  eight  all  traces  of  the  clouds  had  disappeared,  and 
an  hour  later  there  was  a film  over  all,  with  only  a pale 
gleam,  like  the  memory  of  hidden  stars.  A wind  stirred 
in  the  pear  trees,  rustling  the  thick  foliage. 

Walk  at  five  o’clock.  Blue  jays  flashing  like  blue 
flame  through  the  dark  foliage  of  cedars.  Returning, 
the  air  cold,  a strong  wind  from  the  west,  a fading  sun- 


92 


STOWE  NOTES 


set,  and  the  crescent  moon  faint  upon  it.  March  re- 
asserting itself. 


April. 

Painting  this  morning  among  pitch  pines— a great 
relief  to  be  rid,  if  it  is  only  temporarily,  of  the  loblolly 
variety.  This  is  a tree  I admit  I do  not  like;  there  is 
something  snake-like  in  the  writhing  direction  of  its 
branches,  to  which  the  scaly  bark  gives  a peculiar  sig- 
nificance. The  color  of  the  bark  is  crude  also,  and  the 
long  tassels  catch  the  sky  light  with  a peculiar  glassiness. 

The  trunks  and  branches  of  the  Chinese  umbrella 
trees  along  the  lanes  are  very  interesting;  they  carry  a 
straight  line  almost  to  the  limit  of  grace.  The  trunks, 
purplish  in  color,  are  grained  like  a willow.  They  start 
abruptly  from  the  soil  without  divergent  roots  visible — 
in  this  also  like  a willow. 

A warm  day.  Walk  in  the  afternoon  about  five. 
Slight  wind  from  southeast.  Through  pine  woods, 
out  on  the  open  road  to  the  woody  walk  of  March  30th. 
Five  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  is  certainly  the  poetic  hour 
of  the  day. 

Turning  into  the  wood,  where  it  is  dusky,  pass  by 
dogwood,  sweet  gum,  maple  (soft),  all  in  bloom— that 
is  to  say,  in  comparative  maturity  of  leaf ; the  sweet  gum 
at  a distance  strongly  suggesting  rock  maple. 

A tender  sky — I sometimes  think  the  skies  are  of  a 
more  delicate  tint  in  April.  The  air  soft  as  summer, 
none  of  the  rawness  of  spring,  as  indeed  at  no  time,  even 
when  we  first  arrived  in  the  middle  of  March,  have  we 


THESOUTH  93 

felt  the  discomfort  of  the  wet  raw  air  of  a Northern 
April. 

It  suddenly  occurs  to  me  to  make  a pilgrimage  to  my 
beautiful  friends,  the  beeches.  Through  brush  and  brier 
to  their  locality.  There  they  stand,  environed  by  mag- 
nolias and  pitch  pines,  their  smooth  boles  crowned  by  the 
feathery  spray  of  vivid  green  leaves;  that  dappled  fell 
looks  so  soft  in  the  faint  light  that  I fancy  it  must  be  as 
velvet  to  the  touch.  The  magnolias,  whose  smooth, 
gray,  and  lichen-variegated  bark  I have  so  often  seen 
with  satisfaction  and  likened  to  the  beech,  look  cheap  by 
comparison.  It  maintains  its  preeminence  without  any 
strain  of  prejudice  or  imagination.  The  most  beautiful 
tree  in  the  world— Fagus  americanus.  Old  friends  in  a 
new  habit ; for  my  previous  acquaintance  has  been  with 
the  summer-darkened  hue  of  their  leaves. 

Home  by  a sandy  half-obliterated  road,  pitch  pines 
(small)  on  the  one  hand,  tanglewood  on  the  other,  the 
red  glow  of  the  sunset  ahead. 

The  light  almost  faded?  and  a shadow  keeping  pace 
with  me  that  owes  its  being  to  the  moon,  now  drawing 
the  wild  scattering  of  mares’-tails  that  have  swept  the 
sky  to-day. 

Half  past  eight,  wind  gone  around  to  west,  soft  mild 
moonlit  night.  Something  in  the  elastic  and  delicate  air 
—what,  I don’t  know — keeps  calling  to  my  mind  Her- 
rick’s poem,  “Night  Piece  to  Julia.”  There’s  a tropical 
suggestion  in  it,  as  in  so  many  English  poems  and  poets ; 
Shakespeare,  Tennyson,  Keats,  Shelley,  and  others  had 
it.  Under  the  surface  ice  there’s  a warmth  in  that 
national  life,  strong  and  tenacious,  luxuriant  almost,  so 


94 


STOWE  NOTES 


widely  different  from  the  healthy  sterility  of  America, 
of  Germany  too,  perhaps  even  of  France;  this  heat  in  the 
blood,  this  fire  of  poetry,  has  burst  into  flame  at  times  in 
the  history  of  England. 

The  foliage  very  summer-like.  The  oaks,  Spanish, 
water,  filling  out  solidly;  the  willows  somewhat  tardy. 
On  an  afternoon,  looking  away  from  the  sun,  down  one 
of  the  streets,  the  distance  is  as  blue  as  indigo,  the  shad- 
ows also,  even  comparatively  near. 

I have  seen  several  beautiful  beeches.  The  other  day 
in  the  wood,  a bark  like  a panther’s  skin,  wrinkled  at  the 
joining  of  the  branches. 

Night,  moon  well  toward  the  full,  an  exquisite  soft 
air.  At  half  past  nine  very  silent ; a little  tremulous  tree 
toad  sound,  the  distant  barking  of  dogs,  no  sound  of 
frogs.  The  sand  in  the  street  along  the  foot-paths  white, 
almost,  as  snow.  Two  or  three  cows  walking  along  the 
street,  and  a little  white  calf  that  gambols,  almost  si- 
lently, on  the  sandy  roadway.  A mistiness  over  the 
ground,  rising  dim  against  the  pines,  the  stars  bright 
with  softened  brightness. 

Walked  under  the  large  magnolia  which  forms  the 
principal  object  in  my  picture,  and  stood  looking  up 
through  the  leaves,  that  are  wonderfully  heavy,  leathery. 
The  light  penetrates  them,  and  the  upward  view  is 
through  a sun-suffused,  opaque  green.  This  looking  up 
from  the  base  of  a tree  through  the  leaves  at  the  sky  is 
the  most  impressive  view  one  can  take  of  them — the 
variety  of  color,  the  cool  filtered  sunlight  caught  on  the 


THE  SOUTH 


95 


upper  leaf  surfaces  and  transmitted  through  the  thin- 
veined  and  delicate  plates.  Last  evening  at  sunset, 
standing  under  the  oaks  at  the  edge  of  the  pine  wood  just 
after  the  red  glow  had  partly  faded,  and  as  the  moon, 
almost  full,  hanging  too  high  to  be  dependent  for  color 
on  the  west,  began  faintly  to  indicate  the  shadows  of  the 
trees— looking  up  at  the  delicate  clusters,  darkened  by 
overlying  leaves,  fading  to  a faint  transparent  green  at 
the  extremities,  the  capes,  bays,  and  promontories  that 
bordered  on  the  pale  ocean  of  the  sky — to  see  the  leafy 
continent  shaken  in  the  soft  breathing  of  the  air,  shat- 
tered and  reuniting  and  beautiful  in  all  its  transitions, 
was  like  looking  into  Dreamland. 

The  oaks  are  beautiful;  the  leaves  grow  straight  to 
the  sun,  so  flat,  and  withal  so  feathery  light.  Herein 
maples  (soft  maples)  are  disappointing,  the  broad  green 
leaf  seeming  to  droop  upon  the  stalk.  The  black  gum 
leaves,  starting  out  in  tiny  clusters,  make  me  think  of 
butterflies,  as  if  the  slender  twigs  might  suddenly  take 
to  wing. 

At  night.  Misty  moonlight;  the  moon  seemingly 
larger  here  than  it  is  North.  Heard  a mockingbird  sing- 
ing—curious.  They  sing  often  on  the  wing — a short 
flight.  Their  song  rings  all  day  through  the  village,  and 
is  answered  with  notes  as  wild  and  beautiful  from  nu- 
merous cages  hung  under  piazza  roofs  and  windows,  but 
I have  never  heard  them  in  the  wood. 

Out  riding  to-day;  passed  through  a wild  kind  of 
country,  by  a log  cabin  (windowless)  set  in  the  midst  of 
the  clearing.  Three  beautiful  live  oaks  stood  before  it. 
A great  hound  rushed  out  at  me,  snarling  and  barking, 


96 


STOWE  NOTES 


but  was  recalled  by  some  one  unseen.  Passing  the  same 
spot  later,  at  about  five,  a little  brown-haired  girl  sat  in 
the  doorway,  and  in  the  lighted  interior— for  the  sun, 
entering  at  the  open  door  in  the  rear,  shone  with  a strong 
white  light  on  the  objects  within— sat  an  old  woman. 
The  little  girl  seemed  to  be  reading;  a book  lay  in  her 
lap. 

Down  in  a dusky  corner  of  the  clearing  a white  man 
and  a negro  were  plowing ; they  were  well  in  the  shadow, 
for  the  sun  was  then  on  the  crown  of  the  pines.  The 
place  was  indescribably  dreary ; the  trunks  of  dead  trees 
fifteen  feet  tall  stood  close  in  the  plowed  soil. 

Later  passed  two  white  children,  who  tremulously, 
with  deft,  nimble,  naked  feet,  started  out  of  the  road, 
and  stood  gazing  at  me  with  round  eyes,  like  startled 
woodland  creatures. 

Dark  and  dismal  turns  in  the  woods;  in  the  many 
swampy  places  tall  yellow  flowers,  orchid-like,  of  a great 
size ; the  long  afternoon  rays  searching  the  wood. 

Home — the  delicate-tinted  sky,  dusk,  the  round 
forms  and  various  colors  of  the  oaks. 

This  afternoon  out  riding.  Struck  into  the  wood, 
along  a narrow  sandy  tract,  and  came  upon  a singularly 
impressive  and  sombre  scene.  The  brush  had  evidently 
been  lately  burned,  for  all  the  tree  trunks  were  black- 
ened. They  stood  at  long  intervals,  and  a green  mould 
rather  than  grass,  a level  sward  dotted  with  the  great 
fallen  cones,  stretched  beneath.  The  trees  were  large 
loblolly  pines.  The  twisted  and  snake-like  branches 
stood  out  against  the  clouded  sky.  No  bright  gleam  of 


THE  SOUTH 


97 


deciduous  foliage  lit  up  the  scene;  trunk  behind  trunk, 
tall,  straight  as  columns,  the  pines  stretched  away  into 
apparently  endless  vistas  shut  in  by  the  blue  of  distance 
and  the  confusion  of  this  multiplied  form — this  closing 
rank  of  giant  trees.  The  land  fell  away,  and  then  rose 
opposite  in  a long  and  gentle  swell,  and  the  eye  could 
trace  a winding  way  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  yards 
into  the  forest,  over  the  even  turf.  The  sun,  triumphing 
over  the  gathering  clouds,  cast  long  shades,  straight 
shadows  that  met  in  the  gloom  of  a swampy  recess,  where 
the  brook,  sluggish  as  are  all  the  streams  here,  took  its 
course  in  silence. 

Passed  several  deserted  log  cabins.  Behind  one, 
with  a void,  black,  and  gaping  door — windows  they 
have  none— stood  a mournful  cedar. 

In  the  wood  to-day  there  was  not  a solitary  bird  note, 
not  even  the  tapping  of  a woodpecker.  There  was  the 
kind  of  resonance,  a rumor  of  thin  and  airy  sound,  which 
in  summer  seems  a ringing  in  the  ears,  and  likens  the 
circle  of  the  atmosphere,  the  world,  to  a shell. 

The  summer  here  is  more  beautiful  than  the  spring, 
I am  inclined  to  think,  owing  to  the  great  mingling  of 
evergreens.  There  is  no  spontaneity  in  the  laugh  of 
Spring;  it  rings  hollow  among  the  pines. 

The  other  night,  passing  the  church  on  my  way  home 
from  the  hotel,  where  I left  a tinkling  of  dance  music,  I 
heard  the  voices  of  the  congregation  rising  to  the  long- 
drawn  notes  of  a hymn.  Then,  as  often  before,  I felt  the 
force  of  the  poetry  in  the  common  fate.  There  seemed 
something  fine,  and  severe  to  asceticism,  in  the  barren 


98 


STOWE  NOTES 


life  of  the  country.  The  Puritan  impulse  in  my  blood 
rose  at  the  sound. 

Listening  to  this  music,  I realize  for  the  first  time 
how  little  I have  perceived  the  lonely  and  pathetic  side 
of  the  peasant  life,  the  sad  fate  that  attends  the  tiller  of 
the  soil,  the  melancholy  that  gathers  like  darkness  upon 
the  coming  night. 

I feel  no  common  thrill  of  joy  and  sorrow;  it  is  no- 
where here.  The  people  are  alien,  and  have  made  the 
country  strange.  Would  to  God  that  I were  back  in 
New  England ! 

Beautiful,  soft,  hanging,  floating,  and  mackerel 
cloud ; sky  faintly  purple  on  horizon. 

The  other  morning  these  oaks,  now  so  full  and 
beautiful,  stretched  cool  shadows  across  the  white  road. 

There  is  rain  in  the  air.  A temperate,  almost  sultry 
pause.  A buzzard  wheeling  heavily. 

This  looking  up  at  the  leaves— a reminder  of  Fairy- 
land— its  fragile  texture  and  vanishing  shores. 

Two  nights  ago  a bat  circling  among  the  pines ; they 
are  interesting  in  their  silent  habit  and  their  love  of  the 
dusk. 

Beautiful  moonlight.  The  moon  rising  large,  red- 
dish, behind  the  pyramidal  pear  trees  and  the  thin  and 
delicate  branches  of  a little  oak. 

Walk  at  night  (Saturday)  along  the  Broad  Street, 
among  the  tatterdemalion  throng  of  negroes  coming  in 


THE  SOUTH 


99 


from  the  country  for  supplies.  Last  night  the  dancing, 
surging  negroes,  the  banjo  and  the  cello,  the  parti- 
colored costumes  and  the  guffawing  crowd. 

The  light  greens  of  April  under  the  dark  blue,  brood- 
ing, cloudy  sky,  crossed  with  lighter  white  blown  frag- 
ments. 

Beautiful  sunny  blue  morning,  with  light  floating 
fleecy  clouds. 

Last  night  no  mist,  clear,  with  stars  overpowered, 
and  some  hanging  low,  pointing  strange  geometrical 
figures  like  the  hieroglyphics  of  the  mystical  Chaldean 
lore.  The  low  points  of  light,  that  seem  to  connect  and 
bring  near  to  the  earth  the  close  tangle  of  the  light 
above,  topping  the  dense  dark  masses  of  trees. 

On  the  way  from  Camden  to  Columbia  we  travelled 
under  a lowering  and  melancholy  sky,  and  leaving  behind 
us  the  dreary,  dry,  open  wastes  of  sand,  the  level  barrens 
of  oak  and  pine,  we  came  into  a wild  and  dreadful  region, 
a "desert  inaccessible,  under  the  shade  of  melancholy 
bough  s.” 

A dense  cane-brake  clogged  the  depths  of  the  forest ; 
it  rose  to  the  height  of  six  or  seven  feet,  and  intertwined 
among  the  stalks,  and  hanging  on  the  meeting  heads, 
were  leafy  vines.  Young  trees  started  up  in  the  midst  of 
the  tangle,  and  the  whole  formed  an  impenetrable  thicket. 
Dark  pools  showed  in  among  the  brake,  and  winding 
through  the  dismal  forest  were  sluggish  brown  canals  in 
which  rotting  trunks  were  visible,  their  mud-coated 


IOO 


STOWE  NOTES 


slimy  bulk  thrust  as  alligators,  or  some  other  swamp 
denizen,  half  out  of  water. 

Sweet  and  black  gum,  post  oaks,  live  oaks,  and 
cypress  were  conspicuous  among  the  trees;  they  rose  to 
a gloomy  height,  and  thrust  their  haggard  branches, 
gnarled  and  moss-hung,  against  the  cold  dark  sky. 

Sometimes  the  bulk  of  foliage,  the  tangle  of  vines, 
was  a barrier  to  the  eye;  sometimes  vistas  opened  to  a 
depth  of  heavier  gloom.  Such  is  a Southern  swamp. 

From  Spartanburg  to  Asheville.  Almost  on  the 
boundary  of  North  Carolina  the  mountains  sprung  up, 
blue,  indistinct — the  air  full  of  smoke.  As  the  train 
passed  through  the  thick  woody  tangle,  tiny  fires,  kindled 
probably  from  the  sparks  and  burning  fragments  from 
the  engine,  were  wavering  in  the  strong  southwest  wind. 
Sometimes  we  passed  by  larger  fires,  seemingly  attempts 
at  clearing — charred  and  red  smouldering  logs,  and  here 
and  there  a bright  burst  of  flames. 

In  the  cuttings  through  which  we  passed— the  walls 
clay  and  brown,  earth-stained,  slaty  rock — the  air 
seemed  damp  like  the  air  of  a grotto.  The  road  ran 
partly  on  trestlework  and  high  embankments  shelving 
precipitously  from  the  ends  of  the  sleepers ; once  with  a 
dark  lily-mottled  pond  below,  down  some  forty  feet. 
Streams  on  the  mountain-sides,  dashing  over  the  brown 
rocks.  The  pines  that  show  here  and  there  among  the 
still  naked  deciduous  trees  (oaks  mostly)  seem  to  express 
the  poetic  conception  of  the  tree — to  stand,  dark  and 
wild,  striking  root  with  adventurous  courage,  on  barren 
and  inaccessible  places. 


THE  SOUTH 


IOI 


The  houses  are  very  few,  log  cabins  with  the  outside 
mud  chimney,  sometimes  clapboard  buildings.  Here  a 
house  seems  a settlement;  three  afford  a sufficient  apol- 
ogy for  stopping,  the  third  often  being  the  unpainted, 
rough,  barn-like  little  station,  with  its  platform  in  front, 
close  upon  the  track,  the  only  architectural  feature  that 
could  in  any  way  indicate  the  peculiar  nature  of  its  use- 
fulness. The  track  twists  and  turns,  and  seems  to  writhe 
its  way  into  the  mountains ; from  the  platform  behind  the 
baggage  car  I can  see  the  leaning  wheels  and  the  work- 
ing piston  as  the  engine  sweeps  some  sudden  curve,  and, 
following  the  direction  of  the  track,  I can  see  the  rails 
vanish  into  the  hillside. 

Oaks  and,  I think,  tulip  trees  seem  to  be  the  largest 
growth.  Before  reaching  Hendersonville  dogwood  was 
common,  the  white  blossoms  shining  in  the  woods  while 
as  yet  the  leaf-buds  were  hardly  out.  Some  small  oaks 
retain  their  last  year’s  leaves,  but  vegetation  seems  little 
advanced,  though  it  is  now  almost  the  middle  of  April. 
It  is  about  what  one  would  expect  in  March.  Scaly  buds, 
etc. ; the  apple  trees,  some  gnarled  old  specimens  strag- 
gling along  the  route,  were  in  blossom.  Wild  honey- 
suckles here  and  there  showed  prettily,  and  there  was 
sometimes  dense  undergrowth,  a small  shrub-like  laurel 
with  longer  (I  think  oblong)  descending,  seemingly 
digitate  leaves. 

The  sides  of  the  hills  unsheltered  by  the  trees  were 
grayish  or  slightly  colored  by  the  mould  of  dead  leaves. 
Some  of  these  brown  skeletons  (narrow  and  cut  oak) 
danced  with  a rustling  sound  in  the  windy  wake. 

The  sun  set  round  and  red  in  the  heavy  air.  It 


102 


STOWE  NOTES 


glowed  behind  the  thin  fringe  of  deciduous  trees  on  the 
mountain  shoulders,  and  again,  at  a turn  of  the  track, 
would  swing  out  and  hang  between  the  diverging  hills. 
It  set  several  times  that  day,  and  finally,  when  it  had 
quite  disappeared,  a faint  pink  flush  suffused  the  west- 
ern sky. 

Fastened  to  the  last  car  was  a truck  on  which  sat  two 
mountaineers  and  a negro.  The  two  former,  stolid, 
apathetic,  with  a rustic  bearing,  something  more  than 
country  awkwardness,  that  was  the  slow,  meaning, 
powerful  attitude  that  is  a kind  of  grace  and  is  an  at- 
tribute of  the  peasant.  They  were  of  the  evil,  strong, 
picturesque  animal,  such  as  one  never  sees  in  the  North. 
They  represented  the  European  peasant,  and  redeemed 
the  likeness  with  a saving  kind  of  wildness.  The  feat- 
ures of  both  were  well  moulded  rather  than  cut;  long 
thin  faces,  rather  long  noses,  eyes  small,  close,  giving 
them  a furtive,  watchful,  rather  than  contemplative  ex- 
pression— the  look  of  a wild  animal — thin  lips  and  small 
chins,  thoroughly  American.  Both  sat  with  their  hats 
drawn  over  their  eyes. 

They  never  spoke  to  one  another,  they  never  even 
smiled;  they  let  their  eyes  wander,  and  occasionally 
turned  their  heads  from  side  to  side,  but  otherwise  they 
were  still  as  wooden  images.  This  was  the  more  re- 
markable in  the  negro,  whose  pose,  though  it  seemed 
restful  in  the  quietude  he  maintained,  was  a little  con- 
strained. He  sat  with  his  right  leg  extended,  his  left 
crossed  over  it  at  a right  angle  with  the  knee,  supporting 
himself  in  an  upright  position  by  his  right  arm  a little 
bent,  the  palm  extended  flat  upon  the  floor  of  the  truck. 


THE  SOUTH 


103 


Around  his  thick  swarthy  wrist  was  a narrow  black  band 
like  a strip  of  court-plaster,  possibly  a charm. 

Another  man,  somewhat  better  dressed  though  less 
picturesquely,  a bearded  fine  figure  with  a rather  intelli- 
gent face,  a foreman  evidently,  was  standing  on  the  back 
platform.  Arriving  at  the  station,  this  one  got  off  the 
train,  and  the  negro  uncoupled  the  truck.  They  ran  it 
back  a few  yards,  threw  the  shovels,  etc.,  hastily  upon 
the  ground,  and  finally  lifted  the  truck  bodily  off  the 
rails.  They  were  interesting  to  watch,  so  silent  and  so 
handy  at  their  work. 

In  the  course  of  the  run,  passing  through  the  narrow 
and  sometimes  steep  cuttings,  the  dense  black  smoke 
from  the  engine  would  pour  down  and  hang  in  the  open- 
ing, so  that  as  we  left  it  we  seemed  to  have  escaped  from 
the  infernal  regions.  The  smoke  cloud  would  fall  with 
the  blackness  of  a thunder-storm,  and  on  several  occa- 
sions threatened  to  envelop  the  little  truck;  at  which  the 
two  drew  their  hats  further  over  their  eyes,  but  other- 
wise sat  unmoved. 

The  twilight  was  cold,  the  evening  cheerless  on  ac- 
count of  the  gray  smoky  sky.  Far  away  on  either  hand, 
at  a break  in  the  hills,  one  could  catch  glimpses  of  further 
mountains,  ghostly  thin. 

There  was  a sweet  smell  from  the  earth.  While  in 
the  train  I could  hear  a shrill  whistling  kind  of  note  that 
I took  for  a frog's,  and  later  (at  night)  when  we  stopped 
they  were  piping  loud.  A weird  sound,  almost  like  the 
note  of  a bird,  it  was  impossible  to  locate.  The  stars 
shone  verv  dim. 

Far  down  in  the  narrow  valleys  were  some  log  cabins. 


104 


STOWE  NOTES 


Could  these  cuttings  be  the  “coves”  of  Miss  Murfree’s 
Tennessee  mountains? 

Asheville,  North  Carolina, 

April. 

Mountains  rising  on  all  hands,  with  a crowning 
fringe  of  thin,  leafless,  deciduous  stems,  and  pines.  Air 
cool,  soft,  very  thick — smoke? 

The  red  clay  in  a measure  destroying  the  poetic  sig- 
nificance of  the  distant,  far-stretching,  and  vanishing 
roads. 

A view  (of  a kind)  from  the  hotel,  but  to  us  who 
have  so  long  pined  on  the  Georgia  levels,  it  opened  with 
a wide  and  pleasant  effect.  The  sight  of  the  mountains 
put  us  at  home. 

Strong  west  wind ; beautiful  effect  of  breaking  clouds 
over  Pisgah  and  westward  toward  Tennessee. 

Old  farmhouse  on  the  bank  of  the  Swannanoa,  with 
one  chimney  matted  with  ivy  stems  carrying  the  leaves 
to  the  very  top.  This  is  the  first  real  glimpse  of  farms 
and  civilization  that  I have  had  as  yet.  It  is  delightful 
in  that  it  makes  me  think  of  home. 

Road  winding  up  the  mountain-side;  distance  blue, 
nearer  hills  purple,  so  soft  with  their  clothing  of  decidu- 
ous trees— like  the  withered  goldenrods*  stems  in  a 
November  field. 

Chestnuts,  red  and  white  oaks,  black  birch,  dogwood, 
yellow  and  Table  Mountain(?)  pines,  and  occasionally 
the  beautiful,  dark,  gleaming,  feathery  foliage  of  the 
white  pines.  The  oaks  are  magnificent— their  rugged 


THE  SOUTH 


105 


boughs,  growing  gnarled  and  misdirected,  having  a sym- 
metry of  strength;  they  are  imposing.  Everywhere, 
more  especially  in  the  wood,  grow  mountain  laurel  and 
rhododendron. 

The  mountains  to  the  north  are  the  Rugged,  Craggy, 
and  Black  ranges. 

The  wind  was  blowing  strong  at  sunset.  Clouds, 
aping  the  mountain  shapes  and  extending  the  ranges  in- 
definitely, growing  heavy  and  towering  in  the  southwest, 
caught  the  light.  The  sun  sank  round  and  red,  and  a hot 
glow,  as  bright  as  blood,  burned  for  a little  behind  the 
western  mountains. 

Hot  Springs,  North  Carolina, 

April. 

At  night,  the  rush  of  the  river. 

Thunder-storm  about  half  past  four— hail,  and  a 
driving  wind  that  blew  white  storm-wraiths  through  the 
rain.  Clear  again  at  five,  the  heavy  mass  of  clouds 
lifting  like  a curtain  and  disclosing  the  blue  sky  and 
sparkling  hilltops  westward. 

Swallows  flew  along  the  surface  of  the  river;  the 
opposite  bank  was  alive  with  bird  notes.  A pleasant 
sound  from  the  dripping  rocks.  The  sun  obscured;  the 
scattered  clouds,  fragments  again  concentrating  in  the 
west;  the  east  clear  and  blue.  The  creek  brawling 
hoarsely. 

On  the  way  home,  passed  by  some  evergreens — some 
cedars  or  junipers,  whose  foliage  held  the  tiny  raindrops, 
sparkling  amid  the  boughs  like  a beautiful  iridescent 
fruit,  crystalline  berries. 


io6 


STOWE  NOTES 


Clear  windy  morning.  Wandered  over  to  the  little 
island.  Under  the  yellow  pines ; the  forget-me-nots  star- 
ring their  mossy  cushions — on  such  delicate  fairy  stems, 
tremulously  erect,  growing  so  close  in  little  oval  patches, 
like  pools  that  mirror  a delicate  blue,  an  April  sky. 
White  and  blue  violets  growing  rank  as  daisies ; exquisite 
purple  flowers,  larkspur  and  ice-moss. 

On  visiting  this  spot  before,  the  afternoon  sun  was 
from  time  to  time  hidden  in  the  clouds,  so  that  there  was 
a beautiful  play  of  light  and  shade  on  the  moss. 

Further  on,  at  the  edge  of  the  shadow,  where  the  road 
gave  out  upon  a bright  sandy  stretch  sloping  to  the  river, 
the  pines  were  replaced  by  a growth  of  young  hemlocks, 
under  whose  dark  foliage  the  shade  took  on  a cooler  sug- 
gestion. Of  all  evergreens,  not  excepting  even  my 
friends  the  white  pines,  these  appeal  to  me  the  most,  with 
their  beautiful,  graceful,  and  delicate  branches  tapering 
to  such  fragile  twigs — so  smooth  and  light-hued  in 
saplings— their  bright  yet  sombre  foliage,  their  delicate 
tiny  cones.  The  poetic  habiliment  of  the  pine  is  theirs  by 
right. 

Two  old  trees,  a sweet  gum  and  a sycamore,  share  the 
guardianship  of  the  little  beach.  Opposite,  the  rocky 
bank  rises  precipitously;  the  river  sweeps  in  an  arc,  of 
which  the  beach  is  the  centre,  coming  tumbling,  yellow 
and  turbulent,  from  the  east,  and  sweeping  westward 
under  the  rugged  wall. 


May. 

Ride  toward  Paint  Rock ; windy  morning,  but  a burn- 
ing summer  heat  out  of  the  wind.  Trees  well  out — red 


THE  SOUTH 


107 


oaks,  black  birches,  buckeye,  chestnut.  Saw  several  in- 
teresting birds— a cardinal,  flashing  like  flame  in  the 
dark  boughs  of  a cedar ; though  the  simile  is  worn,  the 
wonderful  brilliance  of  the  bird  plumage  gave  life  to  it. 
Alders  line  the  river— a natural  hedge. 

Several  snakes  lying  dead  in  the  road.  Is  it  Long- 
fellow, in  “Miles  Standish,”  who  likens  an  Indian  to  a 
snake  ? The  comparison  seems  very  fit ; the  strange  and 
varied  markings  of  the  skins  suggest  a fashion  of  war- 
paint, for  a snake  is  sinister  in  every  habit  of  life — its 
comings  and  goings  seem  to  be  directed  along  the  war- 
path. 

Terribly  hot  in  the  morning;  a beautiful,  mysterious 
summer  night. 

The  suggestiveness  of  summer! — a word  that  is  so 
weighted  with  the  fullness  of  existence — means  more  to 
me  than  any  other  word  in  the  language,  I think. 

A strong  wind  from  the  east;  near  Paint  Rock  the 
baying  of  hounds,  deep,  bell-like,  with  a full,  prolonged, 
and  startling  cry. 

Home,  facing  the  wind.  A cold  and  shrouded  sun- 
set, the  moon  riding  high,  slightly  tinged. 

The  butterflies  gather  and  hover  on  this  road,  circling 
and  whirling  like  a dance  of  the  fairies,  the  volatiles ! 

Cloudy  afternoon,  rain  about  half  past  three.  The 
road  beautiful,  crossed  by  light  and  shadow,  the  foliage 
almost  summer-like.  A beech  exquisitely  illumined ; the 
boughs  light  transparent  green  in  the  shade,  fairly  glit- 


io8 


STOWE  NOTES 


tering  with  a white  metallic  sparkle  in  the  sunshine. 
The  moss-stained  face  of  the  gray  rock,  over  which 
trickles  the  oozing  of  some  tiny  spring.  A strong  wind 
and  a threat  of  rain  bring  me  home  at  the  double  quick. 

A rainy  outlook ; heavy,  moist  clouds  stretching  gray 
across  the  sky,  lifting  low  above  the  western  horizon  to 
admit  a pale  yellow  strip  of  light. 

Crossing  the  ferry,  I heard  the  thin  elastic  cry  of  the 
nighthawks  and  saw  them  whirling  high  above. 

Note  the  beauty  of  parallel  lines,  in  the  trunk  of  a 
tree,  in  branches— -the  charm  of  bare  and  simple  facts. 

The  devil’s  darning-needles  that  flew  across  my  path 
appeared  more  like  the  handiwork  of  a miraculously 
skilful  jeweller  than  Nature’s  production,  so  glistening, 
so  unreal. 

Rather  damp  evening,  misty.  On  the  ride  home  the 
wall-like  hill  from  which  the  river  seems  to  spring  was 
blank,  desolately  void  in  the  obliterating  mist.  The 
island  is  in  full  leaf,  the  trees  round  and  green,  of  won- 
derful variety  of  shade  and  form. 

Yesterday,  out  riding,  saw  another  dragon-fly,  whose 
wings  were  bronze-gold.  The  body  was  of  the  color  and 
iridescent  glow  of  opaque  glass,  such  as  one  sees  often 
in  the  stem  of  a goblet  of  Venetian  ware.  If  it  is  true 
that  insects  take  their  color  and  general  appearance  from 
their  surroundings,  dragon-flies  would  seem  to  be  relics 
of  the  ages  of  brass  and  iron.  Among  such  scenes  they 
might  have  winged  a less  startling  flight. 


THE  SOUTH 


109 


Beautiful  moonlight;  moon  almost  on  the  full,  I 
think.  The  air,  cleared  by  the  rain,  is  crystalline. 

The  hills  that  rim  this  basin  are  clearly  defined, 
sharp,  just  under  the  moon,  where  a pyramidal  pine- 
crowned  hill  rises  against  the  sky.  In  the  clefts  and 
gorges  the  white  mist-wreaths  are  gathering;  to  the 
north  a cloud  rests  on  the  mountains.  High,  high  above, 
almost  in  the  apex  of  the  arch,  swings  the  Dipper,  and 
lower,  pale  but  steadfast,  trembles  the  Northern  Star. 
The  planets  shine  with  a deep  and  splendid  radiance ; low 
in  the  west,  one,  wonderfully  luminous,  flashes  through 
the  branches  of  a locust. 

My  shadow  lies  as  bHck  and  clear  as  if  thrown  by 
some  brilliant  artificial  light.  A slight  and  cool  wind  is 
stirring;  it  gently  waves  the  branches  of  the  trees.  Fur- 
ther to  the  west  the  line  of  the  ridge  is  a little  blurred. 
The  moon  seeks  out  the  masses  of  foliage,  and  wraps  the 
hills  in  an  added  shade  of  mystery.  The  eye,  turned 
away  from  the  source  of  light,  finds  the  scene  gradually 
growing,  the  details  shaping  out  of  the  void.  There  is  a 
continuous  and  strange  iteration.  Can  it  be  the  cry  of  a 
whippoorwill  that  comes  up  from  the  river? 

Listen  to  the  negroes  singing.  How  they  love  a slow 
and  melancholy  cadence!  Their  songs  were  well  sung, 
and  fell  sweetly  on  the  wilder  far-ofif  murmurs  of  the 
night— the  weird  complaining  of  whippoorwills,  the 
shrilling  of  frogs,  and  the  strong  continuous  rush  of 
the  river. 

On  the  beach  the  old  sycamore  has  drawn  an  en- 
chanted circle  of  shade  about  his  whitened  trunk.  The 


no 


STOWE  NOTES 


leaves  catch  the  sky  lights  less  glassily  than  the  foliage 
of  other  trees;  the  upper  surfaces  are  often  of  a very 
perceptible  blue;  they  seem  rather  to  absorb  the  color 
than  to  reflect  the  light. 

I had  intended  making  my  walk  a short  one,  but  the 
charm  of  the  place  led  me.  Any  summer  afternoon  will 
suffice  to  elucidate  the  myths  of  the  wood  spirits — allur- 
ing fairies,  will-o’-the-wisps— the  dumb  welcome,  the 
detaining  of  invisible  hands,  the  enticing  of  soundless 
voices.  When  one  has  once  become  a familiar  of  the 
woodland  greens,  one  has  in  a measure  lost  the  power  to 
refuse;  every  waving  leaf  and  grass  blade  seems  to 
beckon — all  the  senses  are  under  the  spell,  and  conspire 
to  lead  one  astray. 

Reentering  the  wood  was  like  stepping  into  the  dim 
interior  of  a cathedral.  The  place  was  solemn;  the  sun 
had  gone  under  a cloud,  and  the  light  came  sadly  in. 

A pale  sunset,  seen  from  my  window.  High  above 
I see  the  nighthawks,  the  size  of  gnats,  yet  their  cry  is 
distinct.  The  air  is  full  of  bird  notes,  and  far  away  a 
clear  silvery  sound  that  startles  me  with  its  likeness  to 
the  music  of  a wood  thrush. 

To-day  in  the  wood,  out  riding,  saw  a crested  cardi- 
nal dart  through  the  foliage.  It  is  by  observation  of  the 
ornamental  in  nature  that  one  can  arrive  at  some  reason 
in  the  Indian  methods. 

I walked  this  morning  about  half  past  nine  o’clock 
along  the  near  river  bank  southeastward.  Followed  the 
same  sandy  way  that  was  my  first  pedestrian  venture  on 


THE  SOUTH 


hi 


my  arrival.  What  a change  has  been  accomplished  in  a 
little  more  than  two  weeks ! The  road,  then  open,  is  now 
shut  in  by  a growth  of  summer  verdure ; the  air  is  heavy 
with  a summer  fragrance.  The  bright  sunlit  boles  of 
the  beeches  are  now  dim  in  the  shadow  recesses  of  their 
own  foliage.  The  young  sycamores  along  the  way,  start- 
ing up  out  of  the  sand,  are  now  perhaps  the  most  inter- 
esting of  all  surrounding  trees.  Every  leaf  has  a 
particular  interest,  some  individual  charm ; between  those 
through  which  the  light  penetrates  and  those  reflecting 
it  there  is  a marked  contrast  of  color.  I retract  anything 
I may  have  said  hitherto  in  dispraise  of  them. 

The  holly  trees  are  putting  out  fresh  sprouts,  ten- 
derly green.  At  the  grove  of  birches  and  alders,  where 
formerly  a bank  of  violets  showed  purple  in  the  shadow, 
I find  some  few  remaining,  hid  under  the  leaves.  Fur- 
ther on,  I rest  under  a hemlock,  the  branches  tipped  with 
a bright  crown  of  new  yellow-green  leaves.  The  little 
cones  hang  prettily  on  the  under  side  of  the  branches. 

There  is  no  delight  so  intense,  I think,  unless  it  is  the 
hearing  of  music,  as  this  of  looking  the  day  in  the  face 
and  basking  in  its  smile.  All  nature  seems  to  jump  with 
my  mood.  An  impulse  animates  me,  as  strong  perhaps, 
though  the  direct  reverse,  as  that  which  caused  Chris- 
tian to  shut  out  the  voices  of  his  wife  and  children  and 
hurry  away,  crying  out,  “Life ! Life ! Eternal  life !” 


VERMONT 


Stowe,  Vermont, 

June. 

Saw  to-day  in  the  meadows  bobolinks  and  bluebirds, 
also  woodpeckers.  Yesterday  a thrush,  singing  on  the 
boughs  of  a little  aspen.  Numerous  little  barn  swallows, 
often  seen  on  fence  rails  and  ridge-pole  of  barns,  display- 
ing their  buckskin  vests. 

I could  duplicate  my  last  year’s  notes.  Last  night  the 
moon  set  about  half  past  eleven ; at  ten  it  was  descend- 
ing toward  the  barn.  The  air  was  warm  and  sweet  with 
the  smell  of  hay  that  was  gathered  in  little  hummocks, 
arranged  with  rectangular  precision,  and  each  haycock 
casting  its  little  arc  of  shadow.  A softly  lighted,  odor- 
breathing night. 

The  other  day,  speaking  of  the  hermit  thrush’s  song, 
so  far  differing  from  the  bobolink’s  in  the  spirit  of  its 
utterance  that,  while  both  are  without  effort,  one  is  the 
unconscious,  uncounted,  and  prodigal  scatterings  of  a 
blithe  heart ; the  other  seems  conscious  of  the  unutterable 
sweetness  of  his  song,  and  although  the  utterance  of  its 
notes  is  as  easy  as  the  flow  of  water,  they  are  heard  only 
at  intervals.  Yet  he  is  no  niggard,  but  a constant  singer 
ringing  his  changes  when  the  fount  of  aerial  song  is  dry 
at  noon.  He  is  less  heedless ; it  seems  as  if  he  must  par- 


1 1 2 


VERMONT 


ii3 

take  somewhat  of  the  deep  joy  that  falls  upon  his  lis- 
tener; his  pauses  thus  seem  breathless — he  is  rapt  in  the 
delight  and  wonder  of  his  strange  power  of  song.  Who 
has  not  heard  him,  in  many  successive  efforts,  pitching 
his  voice  high  and  low,  striving  to  strike  again  the  thrill- 
ing note  that  still  lingers  in  one's  ears?  His  are  jewels 
of  song  that  cannot  be  squandered  lightly,  whether  he 
would  or  no.  There  is  here  no  jingle  of  current  coin, 
but  each  note  falls  with  the  weight  of  precious  metal. 

A quality  that  adds  to  its  especial  charm  is  that  it  is 
so  strong  and  searching  a note  that  one  is  at  once  able  to 
locate  it.  It  is  not  scattered  in  the  air  like  the  song  of 
most  birds,  but  is  confined  to  stricter  limits  than  some 
quarter  of  the  horizon. 

Standing  in  my  mossy  road,  I hear  it  chiming  in  the 
wood ; in  the  open  field  I can  even  locate  it,  tracing  it  to 
a certain  tree.  Though  not  as  vague  as  other  bird  notes, 
it  loses  nothing  of  its  mysterious  charm ; it  becomes  more 
suggestive,  and  leads  the  thought  a sylvan  dance. 


July- 

A little  brown  squirrel  seen  on  the  trunk  of  a black 
walnut,  chirping,  sneezing,  and  darting — a creature  of 
electric  impulse.  A pretty  fellow  this,  that  jerks  himself 
down  to  within  easy  reach  of  me,  and  then  whirls  up  the 
tree  again  with  a whistling  exclamation. 

A young  chipmunk  crosses  the  road,  and  I afterward 
discover  it  in  the  fork  of  a great  maple.  It  is  pretty,  less 
wild  and  flighty,  with  a more  innocent  expression,  as 
becomes  its  years.  With  its  plump  striped  body,  its  high 
narrow  head,  and  the  little  markings  of  white  above  its 


STOWE  NOTES 


114 

eyes,  it  has  the  look  of  a Lilliputian  semi-wild  pig,  such 
as  one  sees  South — of  a guinea  pig  really,  I suppose.  It 
remained  perfectly  still  watching  me  for  some  moments, 
and  then  at  a sudden  movement  scampered  up  the  tree 
and  disappeared.  At  that  moment,  down  the  woody 
slope  on  the  bole  of  towering  basswood,  I saw  a wood- 
pecker, black,  marked  with  white,  circling  about  the 
trunk,  hopping  stiffly  with  thin  shanks  stretched  wide 
apart,  like  a witch  around  a cauldron.  There  is  some- 
thing impish  in  the  manner  of  these  birds. 

Further  on,  a rocky  mossy  pasture,  with  glades  sur- 
rounded by  a growth  of  old  maples,  basswood,  ash,  beech. 
Onward  through  the  old  road,  afterward  sitting  on  the 
fallen  log,  listening  to  the  hermit  thrush. 

A deep  wooded  road  with  ferns  and  mosses,  large 
forest  trees. 

The  leaf  descending  with  the  swaying  motion  of  a 
butterfly. 

Clouds  have  been  gathering  in  the  south  all  the  even- 
ing, now  advancing  on  the  moon,  that,  vainly  striving, 
at  length  is  lost  and  muffled  in  the  towering  vapors. 

Earlier,  on  a pale  blue  sky,  she  shone  fair-faced  and 
mellow  in  the  reflected  sunset,  haloed  in  the  melting  of 
the  lighter  clouds— forerunners  of  this  gathering 
tempest,  this  mounting  darkness  that  holds  above  us 
the  threat  of  fire  and  water,  that  lowers,  peals,  and 
flashes.  This  is  sheet  lightning,  that  gleams  steely 
bright,  leaping  along  the  southern  horizon  behind  the 
dark  rack,  and  blinds  the  struggling  moon.  Once  she 
rolls  out,  round  and  glorious,  to  the  eye  of  the  wistful 


VERMONT 


ii5 

world,  and  again  is  lapped  and  lost  in  darkness.  The 
head  of  the  great  thunder-cloud,  pushing  to  the  very 
apex  of  the  heavens  and  encompassing  the  dim  stars  one 
by  one,  is  a vast  cone,  its  broken  ridge  silvered  by  the 
imprisoned  moonbeams. 

Northward,  paler  than  the  dwindling  moonshine 
behind  the  church  spire,  seeming  to  mock  its  form  with 
a ghostly  challenge,  spear  after  spear  darts  up  among 
the  stars.  What  a silent  play  of  seraph  swords ! Rising 
and  falling  so  swiftly,  so  mysteriously,  now  in  far- 
reaching  and  isolated  rays,  now  in  a widening  horizontal 
wave,  the  northern  lights  dispute  the  night  with  the 
storm. 

The  lightning  flashes  bright  along  the  spire — 
for  an  instant  reconstructs  the  scene.  The  columns  of 
the  church  gleam  white  before  me ; above  the  glistening 
steeple  the  sky  is  blue,  full  of  white  clouds.  The  trees 
stand  green ; the  road,  the  hills,  the  houses,  for  one  brief 
and  brilliant  moment  are  released  from  the  black  thral- 
dom of  the  night.  Following  slowly  on  the  flashes,  a 
deep  and  sullen  rumble  crosses  the  sky. 

Windy  night,  wind  southwest;  moon  rising  behind  a 
thin  veil  of  clouds ; air  temperate,  soft,  a rustling  wind. 
Moon  on  the  summit  of  a strange  dense  pyramidal  cloud- 
form  just  appearing  above  the  hill.  The  moon  rides  to 
the  south,  and  the  cloud  is  swept  northward.  The  voice 
of  the  wind  has  the  hollow  rushing  that  is  heard  in  an 
empty  shell.  The  upper  sky  is  clear  and  starlit. 

The  other  day,  whitening  of  the  trees  in  the  wind — 
willows,  a white  tossing  sea.  The  lilac  under  side  of 


ii6 


STOWE  NOTES 


alder,  apple,  and  raspberry  leaves.  The  white  gleaming 
of  the  soft  maples;  the  aspens  like  the  trembling  of 
moonlight  on  water;  and  all  the  surging  sounds.  The 
wind  crying  around  a hillside. 

Last  night,  evening  pleasant,  cool ; bat  flying  on  silent 
though  fluttering  wings,  passing  into  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  and  then  out  again  against  the  light.  The  hills 
sharp  against  the  amber  sky.  Something  in  the  air — a 
coolness— that  suggests  a coming  storm.  Venus  beauti- 
ful and  wonderfully  large. 

Wind  rising  at  half  past  eight,  at  ten  blowing  hard. 
No  wild  and  dying  voices,  but  a great  commotion  and 
rustling  among  the  trees;  a bell,  a deep  and  stirring 
sound  along  the  wind. 

In  the  high  pasture.  An  old  dead  tree — rock  maple; 
looking  through  its  branches  off  toward  the  hills  of 
Sterling.  How  it  covers  miles  of  country!  The  naked 
bony  finger-tips  stretch  till  they  touch  the  woods  on  the 
east ; a mass  of  leaves,  some  dead  and  coppery,  hide  the 
looming  face  of  Mansfield;  a hanging  branch  shows 
white  against  the  tree-tops  in  the  valley;  black  shadows 
in  the  elbows  of  the  boughs,  etc. ; rustling  leaves.  Wintry 
suggestion  in  the  air. 

Moss  Glen  Falls.  Start  at  about  half  past  six,  July 
31st.  Sun  already  set.  A strong  red-golden  light  behind 
the  hills.  Reached  Falls  when  the  sunset  had  burned 
from  yellow  to  red,  the  dusky  red  of  a dwindling  fire. 

Standing  upon  the  acclivity  that  commands  the  first 


VERMONT 


ii  7 

view  of  the  Falls,  we  felt  cold  upon  our  faces  the  wind 
out  of  the  gorge,  and  the  leaves  of  the  little  shrubs  of 
maple  shivered  and  fluttered  with  the  fearful  joy  that 
the  wildness  of  the  place  inspires.  Pale,  on  the  apex  of 
the  cutting,  between  the  boughs  of  hemlock  the  wide  disk 
of  the  moon  appeared.  Higher  up,  in  the  evergreen 
wood,  she  seemed  to  peer  from  among  the  tree  trunks, 
rising  as  one  advanced  slowly  up  the  ascent  step  by  step, 
as  if  striving  to  detect  what  intruder  lurked  in  the  gloom 
of  her  demesne.  Westward,  the  stream  beyond  the  saw- 
mill, so  far  below  us,  reflected  the  pallor  of  the  sky,  and 
lay  a gleaming  serpentine  track  in  the  shadowy  valley. 
Spider  webs  spun  across  the  path  swept  the  face  with  a 
faint  tingling,  like  the  contact  of  some  subtile  quality 
in  the  air — some  mesmeric  touch  of  ghostly  fingers. 

Out  of  the  black  abyss  the  tireless  voice  of  the  water 
rose  to  our  straining  ears.  To  the  soughing  of  the  wind, 
to  the  rustling  of  the  trees,  to  music,  to  the  sound  of 
human  voices — raised  in  sorrow  or  in  laughter — running 
water  is  never  out  of  tune. 

Our  feet  were  noiseless  on  the  mould.  An  instinct 
led  us  along  the  path  that  at  one  point  descended  into  a 
little  hollow  below  the  overhanging  trunk  of  a fallen 
hemlock.  We  were  come  to  the  edge  of  the  wood;  the 
path  had  given  out  upon  a grass-grown  road.  We  saw 
the  moon  above  the  mountains.  A little  lozenge-shaped 
plateau  lay  before  us,  the  lower  point  a watery  triangle — 
the  large  upper  dam.  Its  far  extremity  was  shrunk  to  a 
hollow  between  the  hills,  in  the  misty  depths  of  which 
the  gray  roof  of  a dilapidated  barn  shone  in  the  pale 
light. 


n8 


STOWE  NOTES 


The  tarn  lay  deathly  calm,  and  down  in  the  depths 
was  the  picture  of  the  mountains  and  the  moon.  Tiny 
ripples  from  time  to  time  broke  the  perfect  oval  of  the 
moon’s  reflection.  The  night  was  cool;  the  air  was  al- 
most imperceptible,  but  the  leaves  of  an  aspen  on  the 
margin  danced  and  shivered. 

It  was  eight  o’clock.  Bullfrogs  stationed  at  various 
points  along  the  shore,  like  drowsy  sentinels,  from  time 
to  time  passed  a hoarse  and  guttural  watchword. 

The  water  seemed  high,  and  lost  a definite  margin  in 
the  rushes  and  tall  grasses  of  the  meadow.  On  the 
further  shore,  to  the  right,  some  dead  trees,  white 
birches,  displayed  the  slender  twigs  of  their  topmost 
branches  against  the  sky.  A bat  fluttered  across  the 
moonlight.  We  stood  by  the  log  dam  and  looked  down 
into  the  black  and  cavernous  depth  of  the  water-worn 
gorge.  Far  below  in  the  shadow  the  foam  of  the  torrent 
shone  a misty  white. 

The  ride  home.  Up  through  the  dense  shadows  of 
the  road,  where  the  moonbeams  shone  on  the  trunks  of 
the  birches.  Here  and  there  in  the  wood  they  gleamed 
with  a pale  phosphorescent  fire.  Up  high  on  the  slope 
of  the  Hogback  one  came  into  more  intimate  terms  with 
the  moon  and  the  stars.  By  lighted  farmhouses,  where 
the  inmates  might  be  seen  through  the  unshuttered  win- 
dows. The  baying  of  house-dogs.  The  lonely  road— 
across  the  fields  in  the  white  moonshine,  and  again 
plunging  into  the  seemingly  absolute  darkness  of  the 
wooded  hollows.  Trailing  wreaths  of  clematis  on  bush 
and  rotten  log.  The  dark  and  lonely  house.  The  open 
pasture,  with  the  ill-defined  and  grassy  track  winding 


VERMONT 


1 19 

by  brake  and  boulder— a wide  space  with  the  scattered 
gleam  of  stone.  Far  away  westward  the  mountains  rose 
vast  and  dim. 

Last  night  at  ten  o’clock,  the  crescent  moon,  just  be- 
fore setting,  shone  bright  in  the  sky.  The  frogs  were 
loud,  and  in  this  muttering  bass  string  accompaniment 
and  the  thin  long  call  of  the  locusts  the  frosty  piping  of 
a cricket  trilled  in  the  cold  moonshine.  It  has  a kind  of 
sadness,  as  a sound  of  the  latter  end  of  summer,  but  is, 
in  association  as  in  quality,  a cheering  friendly  music. 

The  night  was  cold.  This  morning  crisp  and  au- 
tumnal—the  cricket  note  was  prophetic.  At  half  past 
six  small  mists  fading  on  the  hillsides.  Cobwebs,  like 
the  broken  bits  of  Hans  Andersen’s  Magic  Mirror,  lying 
scattered  in  the  grass — a heavy  dew-wet  grass.  It 
seems,  later,  when  this  white  spangling  has  disappeared, 
that  the  cobwebs  were  of  so  ethereal  a quality  as  to  have 
been  absorbed  alike  with  the  dew. 

This  afternoon  a ride.  Oh,  the  beauty  of  these  damp 
woods — ferns  and  leafy  underbrush! 


August. 

Last  night  dense  clouds  that  seemed  pierced  and 
edged,  instinct  with  a phosphorescent  light — the  hidden 
moon.  There  was  a raving  wind  with  an  angry  stifled 
crying,  its  voice  in  a keyhole  breathing  with  a deep  and 
terrible  utterance,  the  low  forbidding  mutter  of  an  angry 
bull.  Its  lost  and  lonely  wailing  on  the  distant  hillsides — 
the  rush  of  its  coming,  the  howl  of  its  baffled  rage.  It 
growled,  mingling  the  noise  with  a hoarse  and  labored 


120 


STOWE  NOTES 


breathing,  like  some  giant  watch-dog.  But  most  inter- 
esting of  all,  mingled  with  its  changing  asthmatic  voices, 
is  the  awed  and  changeless  utterance  of  the  trees. 

The  cold  spell.  Yesterday  afternoon  I rode  with  H. 
through  the  woody  stretch  on  the  road  toward  Elmore, 
by  great  hemlocks  and  graceful  saplings  of  moosewood. 
There  I let  my  eyes  feast  upon  the  familiar  and  beautiful 
sight  of  lighted  spray  and  tree  trunk. 

Does  not  the  mossy  bole  of  the  beech  hold  as  much  of 
that  oblique  illumination  as  the  silver  columns  of  the 
birches  reflect?  The  other  night,  when  the  moonbeams 
penetrated  the  wood  in  this  fashion,  perhaps  the  beeches 
contributed  to  the  phosphorescent  glow  that  I concluded 
was  due  solely  to  the  birches. 

At  the  further  extremity  of  this  wood  we  stopped 
our  horses  to  listen  to  the  exquisite  song  of  the  thrushes 
— two  hermit  thrushes,  I think,  answering  one  another 
from  hidden  places  in  the  leafy  realm  above.  As  we 
emerged  upon  the  open  and  looked  back  at  the  moun- 
tains, we  saw  a dark  congregation  of  clouds  crowded 
over  the  summit  of  Mansfield,  and  through  them  distinct 
and  widening  rays  of  light  descending  far  into  the  val- 
ley. The  wind  began  blowing  cold  from  the  northwest. 
A magnificent  sunset:  cumulus  clouds  floated  in  all  di- 
rections, and,  stretched  along  the  ridge  of  the  sky,  like  a 
daylight  manifestation  of  the  Milky  Way,  was  the  varia- 
tion of  cloud-forms  that  constitute  a mackerel  sky — a 
shoal  of  celestial  silver  fish. 

For  the  first  time  this  summer  we  heard  tree  toads — 
a familiar,  sweet,  but  sorrowful  sound.  It  gives  voice  to 


VERMONT 


121 


the  vague  regret  that  mourns  over  the  wasting  light  of 
every  day  that  brings  the  summer  nearer  to  its  end. 

This  morning  the  wind  is  from  the  north,  cold  as  if  it 
blew  straight  from  ice  of  Hudson  Bay.  The  Great  Stone 
Face  is  hidden  in  a white  wreath  of  cloud;  a snowy  mass 
crowns  the  dark  woody  height  of  Sterling. 

Thank  Heaven,  our  outlook  is  still  northward ! The 
Hogback  closes  in  on  the  southeast,  and  makes  an  im- 
penetrable mystery  of  that  region;  far  to  the  south  the 
cloud-mountain  [Camel's  Hump]  marks  the  limit,  and 
rises  as  a rest  and  conjectural  point  for  the  eye.  Mans- 
field shuts  out  the  west  like  a wall,  but  the  long  slopes  of 
Sterling  and  the  straight  horizon  eastward  of  its  final 
pyramidal  crest  give  scope  to  fancy  and  the  play  of  the 
imagination. 

The  rock  maples  on  the  side  of  the  street  are  rustling 
in  the  wind.  I fancy  these  rugged  old  trees  feel  a great 
joy  in  the  vital  quality  of  this  air.  They  seem  to  have 
awakened  from  the  slumber  induced  by  the  soft  south- 
western winds  and  the  long  warm  days  of  the  past  sum- 
mer, and  to  be  moving  their  limbs  and  drawing  great 
breaths  of  this  their  native  air.  The  rustling  of  their 
leaves  seems  to  speak  with  clear  and  living  tones,  no 
longer  a drowsy  murmur. 

The  thermometer  stands  as  low  as  fifty-seven — this 
at  half  past  eight.  To-day  we  realize  that  the  sun  is  a 
true  friend. 

Smugglers’  Notch.  A hot  hazy  day  in  the  Notch, 
notwithstanding  the  air  is  cool.  A logging  track,  and 


122 


STOWE  NOTES 


further  a path  leading  up,  up  to  the  cave.  Fording  the 
streams— the  wonderful  clearness  and  icy  rush  of  the 
water.  Beeches;  birches;  mountain,  red,  and  rock 
maple ; tall  and  graceful  saplings  of  the  exquisite  enam- 
elled-stemmed  and  broad-leafed  striped  maple;  ferns, 
and  a matted  undergrowth  that  completely  hides  the 
leaf-strewn  mould. 

So  far  as  I went  beyond  the  road  one  might  easily 
ride,  even  at  night.  The  path  lay  partly  along  the  bed  of 
a dry  stream  that  is  clearly  a torrent  in  the  spring.  Small 
dams  of  netted  forest-drift  lay  here  and  there  across  the 
track  of  the  water.  The  roots  of  trees  along  the  margin 
are  washed  as  bare  and  colorless  as  bones.  Enormous 
boulders,  probably  hurled  long  since  into  this  narrow 
chasm  from  the  overhanging  side  of  Mansfield,  obstruct 
the  path.  They  are  moss-grown,  and  plumed  with  ferns ; 
birch  saplings  have  sprung  up  on  their  sides.  Along  the 
sloping  side  of  one  of  these  great  rocks  the  trunk  of  a 
black  birch  tree,  writhing  root-like  among  the  ferns, 
traverses  the  length  of  the  incline  and  rises  erect  upon 
the  apex. 

There  are  black  and  ragged  openings  where  the  rocks 
lie  piled  together. 

The  largest  trees  are  black  birches  and  maples.  A 
coppery  gleam  pierces  the  foliage  above  and  shines  on 
the  tree  trunks.  Far  ofif  I hear,  faint  and  thin,  the  call 
of  a thrush.  The  trees,  hoary  in  their  coverings  of  gray 
lichens,  stand  deathly  still,  scarcely  moving  a leaf.  They 
look  so  white  and  old  that  their  singular  quietude  seems 
an  habitual  attitude  of  expectation,  as  if  they  listened 
for  the  rush  of  the  wind,  the  crash  of  the  falling  rock, 


VERMONT  123 

or  the  roar  of  the  flood  that  should  stretch  them  lifeless 
on  the  mould. 

The  stream  takes  its  rise  from  a spring,  a welling  crys- 
tal basin  hollowed  in  the  slope  of  thebank — amossy cradle. 

Mount  Mansfield.  Started  at  about  half  past  three. 
The  morning  was  dense  with  mist  and  heavy  with  a 
canopy  of  clouds,  since  cleared  away  in  rain  and  a strong 
north-northwestern  wind.  There  was  life  in  the  air. 
Up  through  the  wood  at  the  base,  where  innumerable 
saplings  of  birch,  maple,  and  beech  rise,  shining  gray 
and  serpentine  in  the  lessened  light  admitted  through  the 
boughs  of  the  taller  trees.  The  black  birches  far  out- 
grow the  others.  They  rise,  massive,  twisted,  and  scaly 
shapes,  over  the  tops  of  the  surrounding  trees.  Ferns 
and  mosses  flourish  in  the  gloom;  there  also  the  broad 
leaves  of  the  striped  maple  are  displayed.  Among  the 
mosses  and  the  fallen  leaves  the  little  red  clusters  of  the 
bunch-berries  appear. 

The  spruces  are  mingled  among  the  deciduous  trees, 
hemlocks  also  occasionally,  but  as  we  near  the  summit 
the  hemlock  disappears  altogether.  The  openings  into 
the  wood  upon  either  hand  were  most  beautiful,  for  there 
gleamed  the  birches,  and,  caressed  by  the  moving  sun- 
shine, the  blue  lichen-stained  boles  of  the  beeches  stood 
ankle-deep  in  the  damp  green  mosses. 

Over  our  heads  the  wind  “with  a monarch’s  voice” 
swept  through  the  tree-tops — the  sonorous  trumpets  of 
the  North. 

Presently  a dog  appeared  in  the  road  before  us,  and 
at  a turning  we  came  upon  a logging  party.  A team  of 


124 


STOWE  NOTES 


oxen  stood  in  a small  clearing  on  the  edge  of  the  road; 
great  spruce  logs,  chained  together,  lay  from  axle  to 
axle.  Two  men,  brown,  lean,  taciturn,  clad  in  jean  over- 
alls and  cowhide  boots,  brought  the  beasts  to  a standstill 
and  stood  by  to  see  us  pass.  They  were  hauling  logs  to 
Bruce’s  sawmill  at  the  foot  of  the  Mountain. 

As  we  go  higher  the  air  becomes  colder.  The  beeches 
and  maples  are  all  left  below,  but  among  the  evergreens, 
to  the  rocky  summit  indeed,  as  high  as  the  trees  dare 
clamber,  the  hardy  birches  have  taken  root. 

Now  we  stand  and  look  down  at  all  Vermont  below 
us.  Far  away  are  the  faint  tops  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains. To  our  right  Smugglers’  Notch,  wild  and  rugged, 
lay  sunk  in  the  cold  gloom  of  a wintry  twilight.  A dark 
cloud  stretched  over  Mansfield,  but  in  the  west  the  sun 
was  sinking  untroubled.  Up  on  the  nose  the  wind  was 
strong,  and  as  one  turned  to  look  into  the  Champlain 
valley  it  passed  the  ear  with  a loud  tearing  noise.  The 
sun  sank  behind  the  most  northward  of  the  Adirondacks ; 
it  gleamed  along  the  waters  of  Lake  Champlain. 

To  the  southwest  Venus  shone  with  a watery  gleam. 
The  eastern  valley  was  dark  in  the  shadow  of  this  mon- 
strous pile— fifteen  miles  to  the  lighted  top  of  Elmore. 
There  was  a wild  delight  in  standing  on  the  apex  of  this 
narrow  wall,  seeing  the  rocky  mass  of  the  chin  heaved 
up  against  the  sky  like  the  bows  of  a ship.  The  moun- 
tain top,  to  pursue  this  simile,  is  like  the  deck  of  an 
ancient  galley.  Upon  either  hand  the  empty  ocean  of 
the  air.  The  chin  is  the  towering  prow,  from  which  it 
slopes,  a long  incline,  to  the  spot  where  I stand  amid- 
ships under  the  high  deck  of  the  nose. 


VERMONT 


125 


The  eastern  valley  is  to  me,  of  course,  by  far  the 
more  interesting.  The  gleaming  course  of  a river  that 
winds  among  the  hills  to  the  lake  is  a beautiful  fea- 
ture of  the  western  side.  The  sun  sank  behind  the 
mountains,  that  stood  out  dark  and  blue  against  the 
glow.  It  is  a close  brotherhood,  that  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks— they  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  a fine  at- 
titude that  seems  to  typify  the  nobility  and  the  strength 
of  union. 

The  weather-worn  house  and  barn  had  a strange 
semi-savage  interest.  The  smell  of  the  wood  smoke 
blown  from  the  kitchen  chimney  was  a healthful  perfume 
on  the  raw  air.  The  wind  makes  a surging  sound  among 
the  dwarfed  spruces  along  the  plateau.  By  the  path 
there  are  marshy  spots  deep  with  spongy  mosses,  where 
standing  pools  show  cavernous  over  their  bottoms  of 
black  mire.  There  are  so-called  hedgehogs,  porcupines, 
in  this  wind-wilted  growth.  Louis,  the  cook  at  the  Sum- 
mit House,  says  that  some  have  been  killed  weighing  up 
to  fifty  pounds. 

In  the  house  the  low  wooden  ceilings,  the  wood- 
panelled  walls,  carry  out  the  suggestion  of  the  sea ; not 
less  the  sound  of  the  wind. 

After  supper  the  warm  and  cosy  sitting-room.  Louis 
remarking  in  the  course  of  conversation,  “When  I go 
down  to  earth.” 

The  night  was  cold ; fitful  gleams  of  starlight  in  the 
rift  of  the  clouds.  Half  past  ten,  reading  Lear.  Stage 
direction:  “Storm  still  continues.”  Outside,  the  rush 
and  clamor  of  the  wind. 

Next  day,  the  drive  down  through  the  clear  cold  air; 


126 


STOWE  NOTES 


at  the  hotel  about  half  past  nine.  The  thermometer  on 
the  piazza  stood  at  sixty. 

Ride  at  five  o’clock.  Through  the  wood  where  H. 
and  I rode  not  long  ago  and  listened  to  the  answering 
thrushes.  There,  on  the  spot,  at  about  half  past  six,  a 
solitary  voice,  this  time  calling  mournfully  out  of  the 
deepening  twilight.  The  cold  sunset  over  the  cold  blue 
mountains,  seen  through  the  tree  trunks,  hinted  sadly  of 
autumn. 

On  August  14th  saw  small  gray  bird,  breast  of  a 
lighter  hue,  throat  a bright  crimson.  Lapland  redpoll? 

Afternoon  walk;  clearing — distance  absolutely  clear; 
houses  not  so  big  as  the  most  Lilliputian  toy,  and  the 
windows  plainly  discernible. 

Wind  west-northwest;  cold.  Wind  in  the  white 
pines— surf,  far  and  near,  the  rumor  in  a shell.  Rain- 
drops on  all  evergreens,  particularly  on  the  frosty 
spruces,  that  make  a wintry  sound.  This  might  be  a 
rolling,  moderately  hilly  country,  such  as  the  Berkshire, 
now,  with  the  mountains,  with  the  exception  of  the  dark 
side  of  Elmore,  hidden  in  the  fog. 

It  is  necessary  to  see  the  spruce  in  these  northern 
latitudes  to  appreciate  how  beautiful  it  is. 

The  interior  of  the  slaughter-house — dark.  The 
hanging  carcasses  of  a pig  and  a beef;  their  colors  so 
strong,  like  a Dutch  picture,  a strange  sight  in  the  land- 
scape. To-night  clouded  again,  black  as  a wolf’s  maw; 
wind  with  a coursing  hollow  sound;  rain  shaken  from 
the  stirring  trees — cold. 


VERMONT 


127 


Start  for  a ride;  a clear  morning  after  the  rain. 
There’s  life  in  the  air;  one  feels  exhilarated.  Though 
Nature’s  mood  is  intangible,  one  could  predict  that  she 
will  presently  be  gay.  It  is  like  an  awakening  after  the 
wet  drowsy  days  past,  when  the  sun  was  withdrawn  and 
the  world  showed  gray  and  lifeless,  days  of  dead  and 
vacant  hours,  and  restless  nights  of  troubled  breathings, 
nightmare  whispers,  when  she  seemed  crying  in  her 
sleep.  Now,  with  the  sunny  blue  above,  one  feels  that 
her  eyes  have  opened,  her  breath  comes  in  calm  and  gen- 
tle respirations.  In  the  semi-consciousness  of  an  awak- 
ening she  still  feels  the  kisses  of  the  rain;  she  sighs  and 
smiles — an  indolent  smile  of  sweet  recollection.  The  ter- 
rors of  the  night  are  forgotten. 

The  wind  is  from  the  west.  The  wood — so  many 
and  such  various  forms  of  out-of-doors  designed  to 
flourish  in  the  damp  mist  and  rains,  the  summer  in- 
clemencies and  cold,  with  the  touch  of  late  showers.  In 
such  an  environment  how  startling  is  the  thought  of  the 
naked  dryads— the  contrasting  of  unclothed  flesh,  so 
luminous,  so  soft,  so  warm,  so  vital,  with  the  dull  and 
slippery  leaves,  the  rough  and  unyielding  boughs,  the 
cold  and  lifeless  vegetation. 

Of  Nature’s  early  mood— though  so  flaccid  a state 
can  hardly  be  defined  as  such— it  is  an  anticipatory 
pause,  a moment  of  luxury,  with  the  day,  all  the  happy 
day,  before  her.  Now  I reach  an  open  pasture,  her  laugh 
is  in  the  breeze  and  the  nodding  ferns. 

Moonlight — moon  a little  beyond  the  half,  well  up  to 
the  zenith  at  half  past  eight;  it  seems  to  aspire  less  high 


128 


STOWE  NOTES 


than  the  more  mature  moons  that  shall  follow.  It  skirts 
the  sky  rather  than  climbs  it,  veering  well  to  the  south- 
ward. The  shrubs  and  the  trees  cast  long  shadows 
northward.  The  stars  shine  faintly,  yet  are  the  constel- 
lations well  defined.  The  long  swing  of  the  Dipper,  the 
index  finger  pointing  to  the  Northern  Star— to  those  my 
eyes  invariably  turn. 

Standing  by  a shrub  of  witch-hazel,  I notice  the  ex- 
tended branches,  the  motionless  leaves  (for  there  is 
hardly  any  air  stirring),  and  feel  that  there  is  a par- 
ticular significance  in  the  attitude.  That  outreaching 
twig  has  now  more  meaning  than  when  thus  extended  in 
the  broad  daylight. 

There  is  a heavy  dew,  notwithstanding  the  moon.  A 
mist  lies  or  hovers  over  the  pond.  The  frogs  are  still; 
crickets  chirrup  in  the  grass — a sound  at  once  sad  and 
cheerful.  Their  little  voices  ring  so  lonely  in  the  silence 
that  one  might  almost  discover  their  lurking  places.  The 
trailing  morning-glories,  those  pink-tinged  cups,  are 
open,  filled  perhaps  with  dew,  each  chalice  turned  to  the 
moon.  There  is  a little  ringing  sound  at  the  marshy 
edge— the  misty  willows  beyond. 

Started  out  for  a walk  at  about  half  past  four.  The 
sky  was  overcast;  a thin  veil  interposed  between  the 
earth  and  the  sun.  Brush  fires  to  the  southwest  contrib- 
uted to  thicken  the  atmosphere. 

Passed  up  through  the  wood  where  grows  the  beauti- 
ful beech  that  first  of  its  kind,  I think,  ever  laid  hold  of 
my  affections,  a swelling  form  under  its  tight  velvety 
covering.  The  lichens  on  its  bole  are  of  a cold  blue  and 


VERMONT 


129 


gray,  inclining  sometimes  to  yellow ; the  darker  blotches 
of  bronze  seem  also  to  be  a variety  of  lichen.  The 
brighter  colors,  however,  the  pinkish  tinge  sometimes 
perceptible  and  the  light  bluish  spots,  are  apparently 
little  uncoated  showings  of  the  bark  itself.  Not  content 
with  this  wonderful  variety  of  mottled  decoration,  Na- 
ture has  inspired  the  lower  lichens  with  a love  of  this 
smooth  denizen  of  the  wood,  whose  high  instep  is  clothed 
in  the  velvet  and  vital  hues  of  wet  mosses. 

Near  this  tree  stands  a hemlock,  black  in  the  shadow 
of  its  own  branches.  A great  maple  trunk  rises  beside 
it,  so  ridged  and  scaly  with  age  that  at  the  first  glance 
the  two  are  apparently  of  the  same  species.  The  hem- 
lock is  less  scaly,  perhaps,  but  the  principal  difference  lies 
in  the  color,  the  hemlock  being  darker  and  reddish. 

Further  on  I pass  into  the  woody  road  where  I have 
so  many  times  listened  to  the  thrushes.  Two  gray 
birches,  in  the  recesses  of  shadow,  shine  with  a dimmed 
opaque  brightness,  as  if  their  trunks  were  of  the  texture 
of  wax.  In  the  pasture  I come  upon  a dead  maple,  splin- 
tered— lightning-stricken.  Dead  or  leafless  branches, 
particularly  if  seen  against  the  solid  mass  of  summer 
verdure,  are  possessed  of  a singular  charm.  As  I walk 
I am  accompanied  by  a slight  tapping  sound,  made  by 
the  grasshoppers  leaping  out  of  my  way  and  alighting 
on  the  thin  carcasses  of  the  leaves. 

There  lies  a swampy  bit  to  my  left.  Ash  trees  grow 
in  and  about  it.  The  smaller,  though  they  are  probably 
the  innocent  saplings  of  the  black  or  the  white  ash,  have 
too  close  a resemblance  to  the  poison  elder,  which  is  after 
all,  I believe,  a kind  of  sumach.  Is  there  some  likeness  to 


130 


STOWE  NOTES 


tropical  foliage  in  a pinnate  leaf  that  gives  it  its  subtle 
suggestion  of  poison  ? 

There  is  a singular  absence  of  underbrush  in  this 
wood;  green  lakes  of  tossing  ferns  are  here,  and  occa- 
sionally the  dusky  little  pyramid  of  a young  hemlock,  but 
around  these  verdant  spots  the  dead  leaves  show  pale 
among  the  tree  trunks.  The  eye,  so  often  balked  and 
bewildered  by  a wild  confusion  and  multiplicity  of  forest 
forms,  is  here  caught  and  tempted  by  the  mystery  of 
far-reaching  glades.  The  light  is  blue  on  the  lateral 
sprays  of  beech  and  maple. 

I think  I never  before  realized  the  wealth  of  beauty 
in  ferns.  These,  in  the  tempered  light  of  the  wood, 
are  fresh  and  green,  in  no  respect  shrunk,  dried,  or 
coarsened,  as  are  those  of  the  open  meadow.  I find 
myself  in  a veritable  sea  of  verdure.  They  toss  about 
the  trunk  of  a young  maple  as  dances  the  surf  at  the  foot 
of  a rock.  Yet  they  are  motionless,  for  no  wind  is  stir- 
ring here.  Theirs  is  the  dead  commotion  and  silent 
breaking  of  the  Mer  de  Glace,  at  once  so  dense  and  so 
transparent.  They  present  a variety  of  aspects  accord- 
ingly as  they  happen  to  meet  the  eye,  exhibiting  in  a 
modified  degree  the  coloring  that  leaves  take  from  their 
position  in  regard  to  the  light.  They  would  be  most  in- 
teresting to  paint. 

Under  the  trees  the  young  shoots,  a woody  stem 
crowned  by  two  or  three  leaves  (if  they  be  maple),  shine 
star-like  on  the  dark  ground.  Among  these  I come  upon 
a sprig  of  cherry — its  beautiful  smooth  slender  leaves. 
I look  in  vain  for  some  tiny  sprout  of  maple  that  still 
retains  the  cotyledons  as  leaves. 

The  trunks  of  the  basswood,  so  straight  and  evenly 


VERMONT 


131 

ribbed,  remind  me  of  the  tulip  trees  down  South,  though 
they  in  no  wise  compare  with  the  latter.  It  is  a very 
large  tree  here,  and  branches  far  up.  The  leaves  looked 
thin  and  tattered,  threadbare,  on  every  basswood  I saw 
that  day ; they  appeared  to  be  blighted. 

By  a grove  of  young  beeches,  into  the  grass-grown 
road.  I hear  no  singing  birds  now ; the  air  is  full  of  the 
chirping  of  crickets  and  all  the  choir  Orthoptera,  and  the 
cry  of  the  tree  toad,  that,  when  once  it  is  raised,  ceases 
only  with  the  ending  of  the  season.  Its  thin  quavering 
voice  seems  to  ring  throughout  the  latter  days  of 
summer. 

Down  the  path  are  two  beeches,  one  lichen-coated, 
the  other  almost  bare,  the  sleek  trunk  striped  in  broad 
dark  bands  like  the  marking  on  a bulks  hide.  A birch, 
clinging  to  the  side  of  a rock,  writhes,  glistening  and 
serpentine,  from  the  crevices  below. 

Presently  the  path  gives  out  upon  the  meadow  again. 
Below  in  the  valley  is  the  gray  ruin  of  a sugar-house. 
Back  up  the  slope  there  are  some  fine  old  cherry  trees  in 
the  pasture.  A goldfinch  skips  on  before  me  from  shrub 
to  shrub. 

The  sun  is  setting  over  Nebraska  Notch  and  those 
nameless  mountains.  It  is  a dim  and  cloudy  exit.  A 
veil  of  smoke  floats  before  Mount  Mansfield.  The  face 
seen  through  this  filmy  interposition  wears  a singular 
inscrutable  look,  an  expression  full  of  subtle  meaning. 

Skirting  the  wood  again.  Damp  and  dusky  now. 
Through  the  meadow;  no  longer  the  tapping  of  nimble 
grasshoppers.  Moths  fly  out  of  the  brakes  and  gleam 
under  the  dark  boughs;  spiders  hang  in  the  centre  of 
their  webs ; the  secret  things  of  night  are  abroad. 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


The  Adirondacks, 
September. 

Leaving  Plattsburg,  the  cars  run  south  and  for  a 
short  distance  skirt  the  shore  of  the  Lake,  and  far  across 
its  shining  extent  a group  of  mountains  shows  mistily 
upon  the  horizon.  For  one  moment,  being  confused 
about  the  points  of  the  compass,  I did  not  know  them; 
then  with  a sudden  emotion  I recognized  that  mighty 
central  form.  Though  dwarfed  and  disproportioned, 
there  lay  the  great  profile,  the  chin  heaved  up  against  the 
sky,  and  all  the  lesser  of  the  Green  Mountains  clustered 
around  it— Sterling  to  the  northeast,  the  Nebraska  peaks 
rising  west  and  south— calm  and  reposeful,  the  sleeping 
giant  with  his  awful  and  passionless  countenance. 

My  Mountain ! With  a swelling  heart,  with  the  rise 
of  emotion  that  shakes  the  voice  and  brings  tears  into  the 
eyes,  I looked  back  at  Mount  Mansfield.  Clouds,  touched 
by  the  setting  sun,  rested  upon  the  highest  point  of  the 
chin,  and  above  them,  white  as  smoke,  hung  the  moon. 
The  sight  was  borne  in  upon  me  like  the  swelling  strains 
of  some  immortal  music.  The  Pilgrim  Chorus,  which 
has  been  associated  in  my  mind  with  that  mountain,  the 
magnificent  ebb  and  flow  of  that  passion  of  sound,  came 
back  to  me. 

The  silent  Mountain  spoke  in  a voice  of  undying  har- 

132 


f 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


133 


mony,  great  and  tender;  it  was  the  theme  of  home  and 
country;  for  not  ten  miles  to  the  eastward,  lying  there 
in  the  shadow  of  that  Great  Stone  Face,  was  my  Valpa- 
raiso—my  vale  of  Paradise. 

Loon  Lake.  Early  morning;  mackerel  clouds  in  the 
west;  sunrise;  the  drive  over.  The  water-lily-decked 
lake  surface,  northern  extremity  of  Loon  Lake  ; wild  and 
rugged  shore.  How  beautiful— beautiful  compared  with 
travelling  in  the  South ! Thank  God  for  the  white  pines ! 

Paul  Smith's.  This  morning  misty;  heavy  clouds, 
damp  and  cold.  Walked  into  grove  of  white  pines,  red 
pines,  and  spruces,  hemlocks,  birches,  etc.  The  white 
pines  are  fine  large  trees,  also  the  red,  whose  bark,  in  flat 
plates,  looks  like  beaten  silver  off  which  a wash  of  gold 
is  partly  worn. 

Beyond  this  grove  there  is  a marshy  place  where  the 
wind  made  a thin  and  icy  whisper  in  the  lean  reeds. 
Pines,  these  white  pines,  go  far  to  reconcile  one  to  his 
fate  should  it  lead  him  into  these  wilds,  but  I found  my- 
self drawn  with  a deeper  affection  to  the  hemlocks. 

Walk  in  wood.  The  white  pines  very  impressive, 
great  shafts  over  one  hundred  feet  high,  in  every  way  a 
grander  tree  than  the  loblolly,  except  the  cones.  The 
birches  are  the  black,  gray,  and  canoe,  these  latter  often 
of  the  most  delicate  color  where  newly  stripped — pink, 
ashen-silvery,  and  a pale  lilac-mauve.  The  fir  balsam 
trunks  are  mottled  like  beeches ; the  beeches  themselves 
few  and  far  between.  Here's  the  confusion  and  the  rot- 


134 


STOWE  NOTES 


ting  waste  that  of  old  thwarted  my  inclination  for  the 
woods;  there’s  no  prejudice  in  my  preference  for  the 
forests  of  Vermont. 

This  afternoon  in  the  woods  it  was  terribly  desolate. 
The  air  was  still — not  a sound  to  be  heard — complete 
and  awful  stillness.  It  was  a most  dismal  and  solitary 
place.  I felt  lonesome  as  I never  remember  feeling  in 
the  Vermont  woods,  for  they  are  full  of  friends— rock 
maples  and  beeches.  There’s  something  strange  and  un- 
approachable about  these  pines.  We  feel  somehow  that 
they  are  old  with  a terrible  age  like  the  oldness  of  the 
Sphinx ; that  they  now  live  and  flourish  as  they  lived  and 
flourished  centuries  ago,  when  these  modern  birches, 
beeches,  and  maples  were  unknown ; that  they  belong  to 
the  original  growth  and  are  in  a way  linked  with  the 
mysterious  past,  that  they  figured  in  prehistoric  land- 
scapes. They  reach  further  back  than  the  Indian,  and 
may  well  have  appeared  to  him  with  somewhat  of  the 
awfulness  with  which  they  now  impress  me.  Out  of  the 
heart  of  the  forest— there’s  no  neighborly  spread  of 
branches — they  rise  straight  and  isolated.  I wonder 
that  man  ever  summoned  courage  to  strike  his  axe  into 
the  heel  of  one  of  these  giants ! 

Some  men  had  been  cutting  spruces  and  hemlocks, 
and  the  fresh  discarded  boughs  lay  all  about  me.  There 
were  innumerable  spider  webs  catching  the  light  in  pris- 
matic tints,  and  before  me  an  enormous  gray  spider  was 
in  the  act  of  spinning  his  trap  in  the  fork  of  a little  spruce 
tree,  silently  lowering  himself,  and  then  slowly,  with  a 
display  of  all  his  terrible  legs,  going  up  hand  over  hand ; 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


135 


the  sight  sickened  me.  At  length  he  desisted,  and  sat  at 
the  very  extremity  of  a little  leafless  twig,  with  his  legs 
drawn  up  about  him,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  an 
imp  with  his  arms  akimbo. 

To-night  before  the  moon  rose,  beautiful  starlight. 
The  evening  star  over  St.  Regis  mountain  reflected  as  a 
long  line  of  light  in  the  lake  below.  The  further  shore 
seemed  to  be  like  clouds  in  sunset;  a silvery  stretch  of 
water,  pale  as  the  sky,  lay  close  under  the  shore,  breaking 
the  reflection. 

The  stars,  as  I moved,  seemed  to  peep  from  among 
the  boughs  of  the  pines.  The  tall  trunks  stood  black 
against  the  starlit  sky  and  the  dimmer  starlight  in  the 
lake. 

This  is  an  interesting  question  about  the  sound  of  the 
wind  in  trees. 

Aspens,  easily  identified  by  the  sound— a tapping  like 
the  fall  of  rain  on  leaves,  a kind  of  rattling. 

Maples,  observed  in  Acer  rubrum— a continuous 
sound,  like  the  rush  of  water. 

Alders  and  birches  (black  and  white)— a fluttering 
sound,  harsh  at  a distance. 

The  wind  in  the  thin  reedy  grass  that  grows  in  the 
sand  along  the  lake's  margin  gives  out  a cold  and  silvery 
whisper. 

Of  the  evergreens,  the  pines  are  especially  fine-toned ; 
theirs  is  a hollow  cry,  full  and  continuous,  like  the  rumor 
of  the  ocean,  the  roll  of  surf.  The  music  of  the  distant 
sea  is  in  all  evergreens,  while  the  sound  made  by  the  wind 


136 


STOWE  NOTES 


among  the  boughs  of  deciduous  trees  is  not  so  deep,  so 
long,  but  is  rather  like  the  rush  of  a cascade. 

The  manner  of  branching  and  growth  of  leaves  has 
all  to  do  with  the  sound ; as,  for  instance,  more  uniform 
and  deeper  music  might  be  made  by  a beech  than  a maple. 
The  character  of  the  leaves,  again,  has  its  effect,  as  de- 
tected in  the  wind-made  sounds  in  aspens  and  poplars, 
occasioned  probably  by  the  long  petiole,  and,  to  instance 
again,  in  the  “furry  boughs”  of  the  pines. 

The  cry  of  the  hounds  is  a fine  note  and  a stirring.  I 
should  think  that  any  fox  or  deer  within  hearing  would 
start  to  his  feet,  impelled  less  perhaps  by  terror  than  by 
the  quality  of  the  sound.  It’s  a cry  of  alarm  too.  It  has 
taken  centuries  of  training,  probably,  to  bring  that  hunt- 
ing music  to  its  present  perfection.  That  detonative 
utterance  must  be  a thrilling  call  to  the  huntsman. 
“Ding,  dong!”  One  can  hear  a pack  tolling  a mile  away 
in  the  forest. 

I think  the  hemlock  is  acknowledged  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  the  evergreens— it  is  so  to  me.  The  flat  and 
spreading  branches  form  a natural  canopy;  the  bare 
twigs  are  as  interesting  as  those  of  a deciduous  tree,  and 
are  infinitely  more  delicate.  Not  so  the  bare  twigs  of 
spruces ; they  grow  too  close,  and  their  minutely  knotted 
character  gives  them,  when  gray  and  dry,  the  appearance 
of  a frosty  network — the  dew-coated  web  of  some  giant 
spider. 

Sounds  again.  I think  a beech  near  which  I listened 
for  some  time  made  a fuller  and  softer  noise  in  the  wind 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


137 


than  I had  yet  heard  from  any  deciduous  tree.  In  these 
woods  of  great  evergreens  and  saplings  it  is  difficult  to 
pursue  the  investigation  of  these  leafy  voices. 

I noted  again  the  striped  birch— white  or  canoe?  the 
latter,  I am  almost  sure— of  a most  tender  and  beautiful 
tint  and  of  so  fine  an  edge,  sharp  as  a knife  against  the 
dark  and  tangled  background. 

Cold  cloudy  autumnal  morning;  an  absolutely  even 
light,  a shadowless  and  sunless  day. 

The  lake,  stirred  by  the  wind  and  reflecting  no 
feature  of  the  shore,  shines  a dead  opaque  silver-gray  to 
its  furthest  margin.  It  lies  like  a lake  of  quicksilver  in 
the  hollow  of  the  hills. 

Later,  stratified  clouds,  breaking  and  disclosing 
lateral  glints  of  the  blue  sky;  a thin  interposition  of 
vapor,  shredding  like  gray  birch  bark. 

St.  Regis  mountain  mottled  with  the  red  and  orange 
of  the  rock  maples. 

Beautiful  clear  day.  Wind  west-southwest;  the 
foliage  of  the  hemlocks,  turned  by  the  wind,  shows  very 
silvery.  The  cones  hang  like  little  carved  wooden  roses. 

This  afternoon  I walked  along  the  margin  of  the 
lake.  The  wind  was  still  blowing  fresh,  and  a little  surf 
was  rising.  The  sun  went  down  in  the  gap  between  St. 
Regis  and  the  little  hills  to  the  northward.  As  he  dis- 
appeared I raised  my  eyes,  that,  liberated  from  the  thrall 
of  too  much  brightness,  opened  on  the  scene  with  some- 
thing of  the  sensation  of  a renewed  sight.  The  wood 


138 


STOWE  NOTES 


along  the  lake’s  margin  was  of  a deep  and  vital  green; 
St.  Regis  stood  out  blue  against  the  sky ; the  spurs  of  the 
northern  hills  were  purple.  Behind  the  scanty  tops  of 
pines  a few  clouds  just  over  the  sun  were  lit  in  long  and 
slender  shreds  of  gold;  two  vapory  fragments  northward 
were  touched  with  pink,  and  to  the  southward  a single 
floating  cloud,  like  a fish  in  an  amber  sea,  faded  from 
lilac  to  silver.  The  air  grew  cold.  The  pines  in  the 
grove  near  the  hotel  stood  tall  against  the  light,  all 
warped  away  from  the  sunset,  stooping  to  the  east,  their 
heads  drawn  close  together  like  dark  conspirators. 

Afterward,  passing  among  them,  I heard  far  above 
me  their  mingled  utterance.  There  was  no  whisper  of 
conspiracy;  they  seemed,  the  rather,  to  be  telling  some 
melancholy  tale  in  doleful  chorus ; their  voices  were  deep 
and  turbulent. 

As  the  sun  went  down,  dark  places  seemed  to  show  in 
the  wood,  tree  trunks  stood  out  against  a sombre  back- 
ground. Looking  across  that  vacant  water  at  the  hills 
about,  that  stand  arrayed  very  much  as  they  did  years 
ago  (the  growth  has  changed,  to  be  sure,  in  great  part, 
but  they  are  still  wild  and  wooded),  there  came  home  to 
me  some  suggestion  of  the  tragedy  that  lives  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  Indian.  I thought  then,  that  on  just  such  an 
evening  as  this,  two  hundred  years  ago,  this  sandy  shore, 
where  I stepped,  might  have  known  the  footprint  of  some 
other,  alien  in  race  and  temperament,  and  that  the  im- 
print of  a moccasin  might  have  shown  in  the  sand,  re- 
vealed without  wonder  to  the  eye  of  Nature. 

There  is  something  mean  and  meagre  in  the  aspect  of 
civilized  man.  I am  sure  I seem  poor  in  comparison  to 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


139 


that  fancied  heroic  figure  that,  plumed  and  glistening  as 
an  eagle,  fierce  and  supple  as  a snake,  stood  where  I now 
stand,  gazing  across  the  lake.  And  though  we  recognize 
so  close  a relation  between  the  Indian  and  his  environ- 
ment that  in  describing  him  we  fall  naturally  into  similes 
drawn  from  the  air  and  the  forest,  yet  I feel  that  I am 
not  any  the  less  native.  Say  that  he  was  as  close  to 
Nature  as  the  beasts  of  the  earth ; his  was  the  attitude  of 
a child  toward  its  mother;  while  we,  who  have  so  far 
succeeded  in  life  as  to  be  able  to  find  time  for  something 
beyond  the  struggle  for  existence,  can  mingle  thought 
and  reason  with  our  love,  can  venture  upon  a footing  of 
reverential  friendship.  But  the  picturesque  aspect  of 
such  a one ! He  might  have  been  a warrior  of  the  terrible 
Iroquois,  a Seneca  of  the  Five  Nations,  the  banded  terror 
of  the  North;  for  these  lakes  doubtless  lay  within  the 
circle  of  fear  that  their  fame  imposed  beyond  their  boun- 
daries— in  the  shadow  of  the  Long  House. 

How  strange  it  is  that  I,  who  reckon  myself  a deep 
and  passionate  lover  of  my  country,  should  feel  so  close 
an  affection  for  it  and  be  so  convinced  of  the  intimacy  of 
my  attachment,  should  boldly  declare  it  my  country,  when 
my  claim  is  in  point  of  time  so  slight ! What  right  have 
I to  call  it  mine,  when  I stand  upon  these  shores  almost  a 
stranger,  and  when  the  dark  shadow  of  another  race 
rises  up  behind  me  to  claim  it— a race  that  had  grown 
old  in  the  land  before,  not  three  hundred  years  ago,  my 
ancestors  first  set  foot  on  Plymouth  Rock? 

This  inquiry  is  natural,  but  here  I confuse  nature 
with  country.  My  country  is  not  alone  in  the  hills  and 
valleys,  lakes  and  rivers,  forests  and  skies  of  America; 


140 


STOWE  NOTES 


it  lives  in  the  faith  and  valor  of  the  Puritans,  in  the 
Revolution,  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  the  Civil 
War;  in  Washington,  Lincoln,  and  Emerson  and  Haw- 
thorne as  well;  my  country  is  America,  the  Great  Re- 
public. 

It  is  this  history  that,  as  well  as  my  culture,  has  made 
me  here  more  native  than  the  Indian.  I have  a claim 
upon  the  land  stronger  than  that  of  mere  occupancy.  We 
have  made  this  country  ours  by  the  right  of  living  in  it, 
not  merely  existing  off  it. 

Walking  back  along  the  water’s  edge,  I noticed  the 
ribbed  sand  below  the  surface;  the  lake  turned  silvery 
and  cold.  The  clouds  above  the  point  of  the  sun’s  setting 
grew  redder,  the  lines  less  vivid,  points  and  flashes  of 
gold  appearing  here  and  there.  The  chirping  of  the 
crickets  had  no  music  to  stay  me ; I hurried  home. 

Cold  starlight.  Looking  south,  I saw  a meteor  shoot 
across  the  sky,  glow  red,  and  vanish. 

On  the  little  hill  the  roots  of  the  trees  are  crossed  and 
recrossed  in  an  almost  undecipherable  tangle,  rived  and 
knotted  together.  I think  the  angels  in  the  war  of  Para- 
dise Lost  might  indeed  have  plucked  up  this  hill  bodily 
by  seizing  on  the  tree-tops. 

The  unparallelled  beauty  of  maple  leaves,  shape  and 
color,  the  exquisite  colors  on  the  under  sides  of  the 
turned  leaves — crimson,  a plushy  pink,  etc.  Beech 
leaves,  waxy — so  easily  distinguished— waxy  both  in 
texture  and  color.  I could  look  at  the  beech  saplings  near 
the  pine  grove  as  long  as  trees  have  any  interest  for  me. 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


141 

By  the  lake  the  leaves  of  the  aspen  shoots  grow  to  an 
enormous  size,  larger  than  basswood  leaves ; it  was  as  if 
one  should  see  the  leaf  under  a microscope.  By  rough 
estimate,  eight  inches  across  and  eight  in  length. 

The  rock  maples  and  some  of  the  birches  have  turned ; 
the  swamp  maples  are  deeply  colored,  and  the  arrow- 
wood  is  bronze  and  ruddy— very  beautiful  tints.  Tiny 
aspen  saplings  seem  to  change  before  the  alders,  which 
stand  yet  very  green,  the  green-gray  trunks,  the  dull 
greens  of  the  leaves,  forming  a striking  contrast  to  the 
other  trees.  They  stand  in  an  almost  spring-like  green- 
ness. Pines,  purplish-gray. 

The  other  day  tracks  in  the  sand  were  very  interest- 
ing— prints  of  men,  horses,  dogs,  and  birds;  these  latter 
scrawled  like  Chinese  characters  all  along  the  beach— 
the  feet  of  crows,  I think. 

Of  reddened  maple  leaves  ( Acer  rubrum),  the  down- 
iness of  the  under  side  gives  a bluish  tinge  like  the  bloom 
of  a peach. 

The  maple  leaves  for  the  most  part  fall  when  they 
ripen,  turning  to  mellow  yellows  or  crimson,  but  in  the 
striped  maple  ( Acer  pennsylvanicum)  they  shrivel  on 
the  branch,  hang  limp  and  yellow.  White  birch  leaves 
grow  withered  and  ragged  on  the  edges  very  often  be- 
fore they  turn  color. 

I think  the  beeches  are  conspicuously  green  now, 
compared  to  the  birches,  both  black  and  white.  The  beech 
turns  to  a beautiful  golden  tree  in  autumn,  the  leaves  so 
uniformly  perfect. 

Who  was  it  that  to  escape  the  embrace  of  Apollo  was 


142 


STOWE  NOTES 


converted  into  a tree?  Daphne?  The  spirit  of  such  a 
one  may  dwell  in  some  of  the  birches,  for  instance  the 
gray,  with  its  smooth  shining  bark,  its  graceful  drooping 
branches,  or  the  white,  with  its  inner  bark  tissues  tinted 
as  delicately  as  flesh.  But  my  woodland  goddess  is  the 
beech— I think  the  panther  must  have  lain  undistinguish- 
able  along  those  gray  and  mossy  boughs. 

The  aspen  leaf  adapts  itself,  I think,  to  a sculptor’s 
art,  as  a leaf  that  might  be  well  in  a bas-relief  or  a capital. 

Strong  wind  all  the  morning;  furtive  shadows;  cop- 
pery gleams;  the  sun  in  a dense  haze.  The  mountain 
entirely  shut  out,  and  the  opposite  shore  as  dim  and  un- 
substantial as  a dream.  Sun  on  water,  broken  and  scat- 
tered reflection— coppery  spangles. 

This  morning  I heard  the  most  plaintive,  sweet,  and 
seaboard  cries,  little  timorous  twitterings — some  little 
birds  that  I could  not  see  distinctly,  swift  and  light  of 
wing— redpolls? 

On  the  lake.  This  morning  the  lake  was  rippled 
slightly,  reflecting  the  sky.  Only  along  the  southern 
shore  was  there  the  smooth  surface  and  the  sunken  re- 
flection. Everywhere  else  it  shone  steely  blue,  like  a 
shield  in  the  sun,  a silver  mirror. 

That  sunrise  at  Loon  Lake!— then  the  morning  broke 
joyously  into  golden  mirth.  It  came  laughing  over  the 
hills,  and  the  lake,  Nature’s  mirror,  laughed  in  response. 
Loon  Lake  might  be  the  Laughing  Lake. 

Under  the  southeastern  shore  there  still  hangs  a dark 
shadow.  Even  so  little  mist  as  there  is  in  the  air  to-day 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


143 


suffices  to  give  that  feeling  of  heavy  mystery  that  these 
morning  shadows  seem  to  possess.  Shadows  as  dense  as 
vapors,  thick,  a dusky  fluid,  a dark  tide  ebbing  in  the 
rising  light. 

This  morning  a single  silver  line,  sharp  as  a sword, 
pierced  the  gloom. 

Lily-pads,  turned  golden,  lie  like  cymbals,  with  the 
narrow  cleft  to  the  middle.  Near  the  shores  are  arrow- 
head grasses. 

I crossed  the  lake,  and  found  a slow  and  tortuous  way 
into  a channel  with  low  sedgy  banks.  The  sun  was  warm 
and  dazzling;  a fresh  breeze  was  blowing.  Presently  the 
channel  opened  out  like  a pond,  the  surface  mottled  with 
round  lily  leaves,  green,  gold,  and  red.  I rowed  on  into 
the  shadow  of  the  further  shore,  for  there  the  water 
skirted  the  edge  of  a wood.  Birches,  maples,  and  hem- 
locks rose  high  behind  me,  shutting  out  the  sun. 

It  was  delightful  gliding  into  the  chilly  shade;  a 
sweet  damp  odor  was  in  the  dead  unheated  air.  It  was 
like  a draught  of  cold  water  to  one  parched  with  thirst. 
A pleasant  breeze  was  there — it  rustled  in  the  trees  on 
the  opposite  bank.  I lay  in  the  stern  of  my  boat,  looking 
and  listening.  Presently  I heard  a cock  crow;  the  sound 
was  distant,  but  it  seemed  to  come  from  the  wood.  Then 
I realized  the  poetry  of  Thoreau’s  thought : how  stirring 
that  sound  would  have  been  as  the  cry  of  a wild  bird  in 
its  native  forest. 

Wind  cold,  wintry.  In  the  channel;  interesting 
wooded  shore.  Birches  all  turned,  hemlocks  and  spruces 
very  dark.  Here  is  mystery,  the  element  that  this  scenery 


144 


STOWE  NOTES 


in  general  lacks.  The  golden  leaves  are  dense  and  glitter- 
ing; soft  penetrable  glimpses;  suggestive  shades  in  the 
black  boughs  of  the  evergreens.  Trees  springing  from 
the  dead  level  of  water  seem  very  tall.  Further  on  the 
channel  opens  out.  A small  wooded  hill  rises  at  its  far 
end. 

Perhaps  the  icy  wind  gave  point  to  my  imagination, 
but  I could  feel  strongly  the  interest  and  beauty  of  the 
scene,  leafless,  clothed  only  in  snow— a white  coating  on 
the  outspread  spruce  branches;  the  evergreens  doubly 
dark,  the  deciduous  trees  springing  out  from  a covering 
of  snow,  their  bare  branches  against  a leaden  sky;  the 
bosky  hill  thus  transformed,  and  the  pond  a sheet  of  ice. 

Coming  back,  I lay  down  in  the  boat  and  let  the  wind 
propel  me,  occasionally  touching  the  oars  to  keep  her 
head  straight  down  the  stream.  Before  me  the  wind, 
catching  the  edges  of  the  floating  lily-pads,  tossed  them 
up  upon  the  surface.  They  bobbed  like  a school  of  por- 
poises, or  the  head  of  a drowning  man. 

Last  night  the  wind  had  many  voices,  mourning  low 
and  whistling  shrilly. 

Cold  wintry  day,  the  dull  cold  that  presages  snow. 
Wind  from  the  west-northwest.  Crossed  the  lake  and 
entered  the  channel,  down  which  I rowed  for  a consider- 
able distance,  much  further  than  I have  ever  been  before. 
The  hemlocks,  that  partly  compose  the  wood,  are  old 
trees  with  twisted  branches  and  dark  close  foliage.  I was 
mistaken  in  supposing  the  wood  to  be  in  great  part  of 
maples;  contrasting  with  the  dark-hued  evergreens  are 
the  glittering  yellows  of  birches  and  beeches,  and  only 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


145 


on  the  very  margin  of  the  water  shows  the  crimson  of  the 
red  maples. 

The  water  mirroring  the  sky  and  shore  seemed  of 
infinite  depth.  The  sky  was  overcast  with  stratified  and 
leaden  clouds.  The  glassy  channel  reflected  the  woody 
bank  with  such  delicate  blending  of  light  and  shadow, 
such  softness,  wherein  Nature  as  a portrayer  of  herself 
triumphs  over  Art.  There  was  in  the  reflection  all  the 
mystery  of  a new  and  different  scene:  its  shadowy  re- 
cesses were  the  entrances  into  an  unknown  country.  Its 
very  remoteness  was  a provocative  to  the  imagination; 
it  seemed  to  lie  back  of  the  wood  above,  far  in  under  the 
sedgy  shore.  Many  of  the  young  trees  were  leafless,  and 
displayed  a crown  of  fine  drawn  twigs  against  the  sky. 

Rowing  back.  For  a time,  when  the  boat  swam  noise- 
lessly in  a stretch  of  clear  water,  there  was  complete 
silence.  Then  a gust  of  wind  would  stir  along  the  bank, 
and,  as  if  that  slight  noise  gave  the  cue  to  Nature,  various 
sounds  would  break  in  upon  the  stillness — the  distracted 
cawing  of  crows  in  dark  and  clamorous  flight,  the 
screaming  of  jays  in  the  tree-tops,  the  whistling  chirp  of 
squirrels  from  the  wood.  Faint  and  shrilly  along  the 
dead  face  of  the  water  the  distant  rattle  of  a kingfisher, 
and  with  these  the  thin  wiry  sound  of  the  sliding  keel 
among  the  rushes.  On  the  opposite  bank  some  ruffling 
sparrows  hopped  from  twig  to  twig  with  a plaintive 
“cheep,  cheep !” 

This  morning  out  riding;  passed  by  Jones’s  Pond.  If 
this  scenery  is  impressive  at  all,  it  would  be  in  such  a 
place  as  this.  The  lake  is  dead,  coated  with  floating  lily- 


146 


STOWE  NOTES 


pads.  A little  removed  from  the  marshy  shore,  larches 
hung  with  gray  mosses  stand  like  cypresses  in  a South- 
ern swamp.  This  has  something  of  the  primitive  look— 
such  desolate  places  as  this  might  have  been  King 
Philip’s  retreat  and  refuge. 

No  change  in  the  weather,  the  thermometer  still  in 
the  neighborhood  of  forty;  cloudy,  clearing,  with  cold 
wind  from  the  west. 

On  the  lake  the  catspaws  come  darkling  like  the 
shadow  of  a harpy’s  wings;  they  sweep  upon  one  with 
a fierce  speed. 

The  breaking  out  of  the  sun  was  like  a burst  of 
music. 

In  the  wood,  out  of  the  wind,  although  the  air  was 
cold  it  was  very  agreeable ; there  was  the  crisp  autumnal 
quality  in  it,  and  from  the  ground  arose  the  sweet  odor 
from  the  fallen  leaves.  The  sky  was  cloudy  and  the  sun 
obscured,  but  it  would  occasionally  peer  out,  and  an 
answering  brightness  would  appear  in  the  wood,  the  dull 
yellows  of  the  birch  leaves  kindled  into  gold.  There  is  a 
silent  sermon  in  the  serene  and  patient  attitude  of 
Autumn.  It  is  as  if  the  seared  leaves  clung  to  the  tree  to 
catch  the  human  eye  and  hold  it  with  this  spectacle  of 
change  and  dissolution. 

The  beech  saplings,  with  their  shining  sharp-toothed 
leaves  and  the  persistency  of  their  verdure,  remind  me 
continually  of  holly,  even  in  the  manner  of  their  yellow- 
ing. The  leaves  of  the  shrubs  of  arrow-wood  that  skirt 
the  path  turn  color  in  spots  glowing  crimson  like  drops  of 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


147 


blood,  as  if  a hunt  had  lately  passed  along,  the  wounded 
deer  staining  the  leaves.  More  often,  turned  whole  and 
uniform,  they  shine  in  colors  of  rough  tanned  leather. 

These  crisp  dead  leaves  betray  the  movements,  how- 
ever stealthy,  of  the  little  erstwhile  silent  woodland 
things. 

It  seems  a little  strange  that  this  Autumn,  which  ex- 
ceeds all  the  seasons  in  the  brilliancy  and  gay  beauty  of 
her  outward  aspect,  should  nevertheless  be  of  so  pensive 
a mood,  even  to  melancholy. 

The  sun  shines  through  the  boughs  of  the  trees  as 
red  as  blood — flashing  like  a gigantic  carbuncle. 

I wonder  if  Hawthorne’s  story  of  the  Great  Car- 
buncle might  not  have  been  suggested  to  him  by  such  an 
evening  walk,  facing  the  red  setting  sun,  and  seeing  it 
flash  with  such  a bright  metallic  glimmer  in  among  the 
leaves. 

The  seeming  conformity  of  nature  with  one’s  mood, 
as  in  the  nodding  of  grasses,  the  whisper  of  leaves. 

The  sunset  on  the  lake — red  fire. 

W armer.  The  dead  buck— the  group  of  guides— the 
dense  misty  background. 

The  wet  transparent  morning  that  follows  after  rain. 
The  boat — its  silver  wake;  the  golden  trees  touched  into 
vital  color  by  a gleam  of  sunlight  on  the  bank  beyond. 
Echoes  around  the  lake;  the  dead  sound  of  a rifle’s  report 
in  the  damp  wood. 

Blood  seen  to-day  on  the  road.  How  strong  in  most 
animals  is  the  emotion  that  the  sight  of  blood  causes — a 


148 


STOWE  NOTES 


kind  of  pity  and  horror  that  is  perhaps  an  expression  of 
our  appreciation  of  its  precious  quality,  its  vital  color ! 

Followed  the  direction  of  my  last  evening's  walk  and 
penetrated  the  unexplored  portion  of  the  path,  which  led 
me,  as  I imagined,  out  upon  the  road  to  Meacham  Lake. 

The  air  thick  as  smoke,  but  cold  with  a dead  and  bit- 
ter chill.  Followed  a little  path  to  the  very  verge  of  Os- 
good Pond. 

The  opposite  shores  were  dim  and  gray.  Heard  the 
far-away  call  of  a kingfisher  over  the  mist-hung  water, 
but  saw  nothing.  There  was  a cold  wind  blowing  that 
stirred  the  rushes  and  the  frost-bitten  leaves  of  the  alders 
along  the  bank. 

It  is  a great  relief  for  me  to  find  myself  free  of  the 
hotel,  its  environs  and  its  population,  for  indeed  a hotel 
is  a mimic  town.  It  is  worth  while  to  have  declared  de- 
fensive war  against  the  world  for  the  sake  of  the  friend- 
ship that  Nature  extends  to  the  solitary.  I think  any 
voice,  even  the  most  tuneful  to  my  ears,  would  jar  upon 
this  silent  intercourse. 

The  rush  of  the  wind,  the  stirring  of  leaves,  all  the 
sounds  of  inanimate  nature,  speak  to  me  in  the  language 
of  friendship. 

The  chipmunk,  sitting  upon  his  haunches  and  crack- 
ing a beech  nut— a pretty  furry  fellow  with  an  eye  like  a 
berry,  glistening,  dew-coated. 

In  the  wood  sweet  bird  notes,  an  infectious  melan- 
choly— the  fall  of  every  leaf  like  the  fall  of  a tear. 


NEW  YORK 


New  York, 
October. 

Into  the  Park  at  the  Sixty-seventh  Street  entrance. 
Several  pin  oaks  stand  here,  and  give  me  always  the  first 
greeting.  I stopped  to  watch  a squirrel  seated  on  a 
slender  branch,  erect,  in  the  act  of  nibbling  a nut.  And 
standing  motionless  beside  the  motionless  trees,  I seemed 
to  come  as  if  by  some  subtle  mesmeric  transmission 
within  the  influence  of  their  attitude;  the  immovable 
trunk,  the  still,  extended  branches,  the  quiet  mien,  af- 
fected me  so  powerfully  that  I stood  still  with  a sense  of 
having  attained  the  end  of  my  journey. 

I glanced  about  me  from  the  oaks  to  the  evergreens, 
and  found  in  them  the  same  resigned  and  almost  fatal- 
istic calm.  It  seemed  ruthless  to  break  the  spell,  but  the 
squirrel,  with  a sudden  relinquishment  of  his  couchant 
attitude,  sprang  upon  the  trunk  and  ran,  with  his  claws 
audible  along  the  bark,  down  to  the  ground,  and  his 
movement  seemed  to  sanction  mine. 

Last  night  the  half  moon,  red,  in  a faint  mist.  The 
fairy  lake— the  dim  bosky  shores  and  distant  bridges 
reflected  in  the  pale  waters.  The  trailing  branches  of 
the  weeping  willows  seemed  to  give  the  only  evidences 
of  life  among  the  trees ; they  swayed  slightly  in  the  little 
breaths  of  air. 


149 


STOWE  NOTES 


150 

In  Central  Park.  Sky  overcast;  interesting  spongy 
clouds  to  the  northeast;  ovals  (lakes)  and  strips  of  light 
metallic  blue;  strong  wind  from  west-southwest;  dead 
leaves  in  the  wind,  like  animate  impish  things;  under 
sides  of  bay  leaves ; a true  autumn  day. 

Oh,  the  charm  of  bare  twigs,  the  silvery  twigs  of  lit- 
tle beeches!  Leaves  of  sweet  gum  turning  soberly  a 
bronze  red,  like  some  oak  leaves. 


November. 

Cold;  wind  west-southwest.  Sky  of  a clear  pale 
autumnal  blue.  There  is,  however,  a genial  influence  in 
the  air  that  strongly  suggests  the  spring.  The  wind 
also,  with  its  chill  and  velvety  touch,  is  a gentle  re- 
minder ; the  air  is  smooth. 

Life ! Life ! Trees  and  squirrels,  and  on  the  branches 
of  a pin  oak  a chickadee,  sleek,  plump,  and  merry.  Na- 
ture’s attitude  is  a brave  one  to-day.  There’s  no  au- 
tumnal melancholy  and  foreboding;  her  laughter,  an 
inaudible  spiritual  utterance  that  is  echoed  in  the  wind, 
the  dancing  sunlight,  and  the  note  of  the  chickadee,  is  as 
gay  and  careless  as  if  her  outlook  were  spring  rather 
than  the  dead  and  vacant  winter. 

Passed  by  some  rocks  and  shrubbery  about  which 
many  birds  twittered  and  flew,  and  caught  a glimpse  of 
one,  large,  purple-tinged,  that  I thought  might  prove  to 
be  a pine  grosbeak.  Another  glimpse  revealed  the  high- 
crested  head  of  a cardinal.  It  was  the  female  cardinal 
grosbeak,  and  the  second  after  I saw  the  male  flash 
through  the  bare  boughs  of  a little  sassafras.  He  gave 
warmth  and  color  to  the  scene. 


NEW  YORK 


151 

I walked  in  a grove  of  white  pines  in  the  hope  of  see- 
ing a pine  grosbeak.  The  trees  greeted  me  with  a deep 
note  of  welcome,  tossing  up  their  green  and  furry 
boughs. 

The  water  in  the  lower  reservoir  is  blue,  though 
much  more  brilliant  than  any  known  color  [pigment]. 

How  many  beautiful  evergreens  there  seem  to  be  in 
the  Park,  besides  the  most  beautiful,  holly.  Cedars  of 
Lebanon,  somewhat  like  larches  in  leaf. 

The  persistent  leaves  of  the  oak  trees  rustle  harshly. 
To-day  there  was  no  great  movement  and  commotion 
among  the  leaves,  on  account  of  the  moderate  wind,  but 
I noticed,  notwithstanding,  in  unsheltered  corners,  some 
skipping  fragments  caught  in  a sudden  spasm,  circling 
in  a kind  of  mad  St.  Vitus’s  rigadoon. 

Sheep  on  the  east  side,  giving  a particular  interest  to 
the  open  reserved  as  a playground  for  children.  So 
many  pretty  children— sweet  faces,  round  and  rosy. 
It’s  hard  to  know  where  to  direct  one’s  interest,  whether 
to  the  trees,  the  birds,  or  the  people. 

The  late  red  autumnal  sunsets  and  the  crescent  moon. 

Half  past  four,  sunset.  Went  out  at  the  first  indica- 
tion of  a breaking  away  among  the  clouds.  Wind  from 
the  west-northwest;  air  cold.  Yesterday  the  thermom- 
eter stood  (earlier  in  the  day)  at  sixty-two.  The  wet 
tree  trunks  black  against  the  light.  In  the  northwest 
quarter  of  the  horizon  the  clouds  have  lifted,  leaving  ex- 
posed stretches  of  the  sky  that  gleam  a pale  metallic 
green;  on  this  float  fragments  of  gold  and  heavier 
masses  of  purple,  stretching  horizontally  across  the  light. 


STOWE  NOTES 


152 

The  light  sweeps  at  length  around  the  entire  circle, 
far  into  the  spongy  east,  where  the  dark  purple  horizon 
fades  to  the  blue  of  the  heavy  clouds  above. 

The  sunset,  growing  redder,  glows  behind  the  dark 
evergreens.  The  wind  wakes  a response  in  the  pines. 

The  dried  oak  leaves  shiver  on  the  branches.  The 
film  of  water  on  the  pavement  is,  I think,  partly  frozen. 
The  twigs  and  leaves  are  glistening  wet. 

Coming  out  into  any  open  place,  one  is  conscious  of 
a lifting  of  the  gloom,  a lease  of  light,  so  masked  is  the 
effect  of  the  interposed  and  tangled  branches.  How 
beautiful  is  this  season  of  naked  trunks  and  delicate  bare 
twigs !— not  like  the  earlier  autumn,  that  is  a scant  and 
wasted  semblance  of  the  full  summer. 

The  sunset  fades  from  red  to  ashen  hues.  All  color 
is  withdrawn  from  the  pale  green  lakes,  below  the  clouds 
that  gleam  cold  and  white. 


December. 

It  is  warm,  wet,  and  spring-like.  The  wind  is  moist 
and  cool.  The  sky  is  the  pale  opaque  blue  of  April.  It  is 
as  if  the  unawakened  Spring  stirred  in  her  sleep. 

Later  the  wind  blows  colder ; above  is  again  the  sun- 
flooded  pale  autumnal  heaven. 

Sunset  clouds  of  a wonderfully  vital  purple,  gold- 
edged,  gradually  fading  to  the  dusky  magenta-purple 
commonly  seen. 

Clear,  cold  day.  How  light  these  winter  skies  are! 

The  Park  is  full  of  the  thin  wintry  lisp  of  the  chick- 
adee. 


N E W Y O R K 153 

Peacocks— the  blues  and  gold  of  their  trailing  tail 
feathers  on  the  yellowish  green  of  the  grass. 

What  wind  stirring  is  from  the  west.  The  air  is  very 
still ; the  reflection  of  the  bare  and  fawn-colored  shore  is 
perfect,  except  toward  the  centre  of  the  lake,  where  there 
is  a little  motion,  so  slight  that  it  reflects  no  glint  of  the 
sky,  but  quivers  white,  like  heated  air. 

Stars  glimmer  more  slowly  out  of  this  pale  winter 
twilight  than  from  the  duskier  summer  skies. 

To-day  in  the  Park.  The  sky  is  of  a singular  blue 
color,  like  the  skies  of  summer  or  early  fall.  There  are 
numerous  fleecy  white  clouds  gathering  heavily  in  places, 
but  between  them,  in  beautiful  gradations  of  color,  from 
the  pale  horizon  to  the  almost  purple  depth  of  the  apex, 
shows  this  summer  sky. 

The  wind  is  from  the  north  and  seems  to  threaten 
snow,  although  it  is  not  very  cold ; the  air  is  temperate. 

The  lake  shows  gray  under  the  clouds.  By  the  shore 
I came  upon  the  pair  of  beautiful  cardinals  that  I saw 
last  late  in  November  and  had  begun  to  regret  as  absent 
friends.  This  fellow,  the  male,  is  vividly  red,  and,  if  I 
am  not  deceived,  of  a more  delicate  hue  than  others  I 
have  seen.  He  is  almost  rose-red — colored  like  the 
breast  feathers  on  the  rose-breasted  cardinal.  There 
were  also  in  their  company  several  chickadees. 

I saw  a white  and  black  bird  resting  a moment  in  the 
boughs  of  a little  maple,  and  on  approaching  found  it  to 
be  a small  downy  woodpecker.  Afterward  I heard  his 
sharp  rat-tap.  It  is  a fine,  clear,  decisive  sound.  There 
is  something  admirable  in  the  seeming  directness  of  his 


154 


STOWE  NOTES 


methods  of  obtaining  his  dinner ; other  birds,  twittering 
and  flitting  about  in  the  dried  leaves,  seem  futile  and 
procrastinating  compared  with  this  silent,  alert,  and 
nimble  creature.  His  note  is  admonitory — like  the  tap 
of  a school-teacher's  pencil  recalling  the  class  to  business. 

A heavy  fall  of  snow  last  night.  The  trees  beyond 
the  Park  paling  at  the  end  of  the  street  are  covered;  a 
thick  white  coating  follows  the  direction  of  every  twig 
and  exaggerates  the  complexity  of  their  branching.  It 
lies  so  heavily  on  the  outspread  branches  of  the  ever- 
greens that  hardly  any  indication  of  their  real  color  is 
apparent.  It  is  like  a dense  white  leafage.  On  the  de- 
ciduous trees  it  is  so  soft  and  thick,  a kind  of  sessile 
frosty  foliage  like  the  flowering  sprays  of  the  Judas- 
trees  in  spring,  only  that  this  wintry  florescence  is 
white. 

Looking  south  is  looking  into  Fairyland,  the  country 
of  Jack  Frost.  Trunks,  boughs,  and  twigs  are  all  of  the 
same  fragile  glistening  texture.  It  seems  as  if  a sudden 
gust  might  shatter  it  like  a dream,  or  that  it  might  waste 
and  dwindle  in  the  sunshine. 

I walked  southward  down  the  long  aisle  of  the  Mall. 
The  distance  closed  in  on  a confusion  of  white  shadow- 
less objects.  Here,  in  a wind-protected  spot,  the  boughs 
are  heavy.  The  eye  loses  itself  in  a mass  of  white  netted 
branches,  as  baffling  as  the  intricacies  worked  in  a spring 
sunshine. 

Nature,  beautiful  in  extremes : the  rhododendron  and 
other  evergreen  plants  are  most  beautiful  under  their 
white  covering,  notably  a little  shrub  of  holly  with  its 


NEW  YORK 


155 


glistening  green  leaves — leaves  designed  to  prick 
through  the  snow. 

Of  the  evergreens,  I think  the  circling  needles  of  the 
spruce  hold  the  snow  best.  The  flat  spread  of  the 
branches  is  also  an  assistance.  It  slips  from  the  long 
glassy  needles  of  the  white  pines,  but  the  Austrian  pines 
again  retain  it  well.  The  white  birches  are  dusky — of  a 
dull  pinkish  hue.  They  seem  on  better  terms  with  win- 
ter than  the  other  trees ; they  meet  the  eye  with  none  of 
the  phenomenal  brightness  that  distinguishes  them  in  a 
summer  landscape.  The  dead  leaves  clinging  to  the 
boughs  of  the  beeches  make  a sharp  rustling  sound  as 
the  melting  snow  from  the  twigs  above  falls  among 
them. 

High  above  pigeons  circled,  white  wings  flashing 
against  the  gray  sky. 

The  far-off  ringing  of  sleigh-bells  is  like  the  summer 
sound  of  tree  toads  or  of  frogs  in  spring. 

People  seem  to  realize  with  greater  force  the  phe- 
nomena of  winter.  A snowfall  is  always  an  event,  and 
in  the  sense  of  a strange  environment,  under  what  ap- 
pear new  and  unusual  conditions,  people  are  apt  to  give 
freer  expression  to  the  natural  joy  of  being  in  the  open 
air. 


Thermometer  at  about  freezing;  strong  gusty  wind 
from  the  west.  A beautiful  clear  day,  with  a blue  winter 
sky  full  of  hurrying  white  clouds.  The  Austrian  pines 
are  of  a deeper  and  more  vital  green  than  our  ever- 
greens, notably  the  white  pine ; they  stand  dark  patches 
of  rich  color  against  the  snow. 


STOWE  NOTES 


156 

Looking  across  the  little  lake  to  the  willows  on  the 
opposite  shore,  that  show  the  liveliest  bit  of  color  in  the 
landscape,  the  twigs  are  of  a bright  yellow  ochre,  and 
beside  them  the  clinging  oak  leaves,  that  are  ordinarily 
important  points  of  color,  seem  dull  and  gray. 

On  the  crown  of  a little  hill  that  rises  like  smoke,  a 
mist  of  pale  deciduous  boughs,  a group  of  evergreens — 
white  pines  and  spruces— stand  dark  and  solid.  The 
wind  makes  a hollow  sound  in  the  pines,  a sound  familiar 
enough  in  all  seasons,  but  always,  even  in  the  midst  of 
summer,  with  bleak  and  frosty  suggestions,  and  now  the 
very  voice  of  Winter.  It  is  truly  the  only  leafy  voice  of 
the  season ; the  thin  rustling  of  the  persistent  dead  leaves, 
like  those  of  the  oaks  and  beeches,  can  hardly  be  so  called. 

As  I looked  southward  to  the  sun,  the  bare  twigs 
glistened  like  dew-coated  spider  webs — threads  of  gos- 
samer. The  southern  horizon,  flooded  with  white  sun- 
light, is  a colder  outlook  than  the  north. 

Clear,  with  a blustering  wind  blowing  from  the  west 
or  west-southwest.  The  gloom  of  passing  clouds  and 
the  wonderful  radiance  of  returning  sunshine. 

Saw  the  cardinal  grosbeaks  at  very  close  quarters.  I 
have  no  words  for  the  splendor  of  the  male.  The  most 
surprising  fact  in  connection  with  them  is  that  they  are 
not  the  only  pair  wintering  in  Central  Park;  to-day  I 
saw  another  couple.  They  were  all  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
pea  and  guinea  fowls’  feeding-ground,  in  a sheltered 
place  out  of  the  wind.  There  were  numberless  English 
sparrows  there,  greedy  and  quarrelsome,  who,  between 
their  expeditions  to  the  charmed  circle  of  scattered  corn, 


NEW  YORK 


157 


crowded  together  in  the  bare  twigs  of  a little  shrub,  look- 
ing cold  and  discontented,  “very  poor  and  beggarly’’; 
contrasting  most  unfavorably  with  the  lofty  bearing  of 
the  cardinals,  who  seemed  to-day  as  blithe  and  confident 
as  if  a summer  sun  shone  upon  them— and  the  ther- 
mometer at  twenty-five ! Their  note  is  a thin  sound. 

Two  little  chickadees,  high  up  in  the  cold  wind,  slid- 
ing from  bough  to  bough  of  a leafless  oak,  no  less  a 
contrast  to  the  soulless  sparrows.  The  chickadees  ap- 
peared to  be  as  merry  as  crickets,  though  their  twitter- 
ing seemed  shaken  from  them  by  the  cold  and  blustering 
wind. 

At  a certain  spot  near  the  lake,  where  underbrush 
and  small  shrubs  abound,  the  little  leafless  twigs  looked 
like  smoke  creeping  up  the  hillside. 

January. 

This  is  the  first  real  winter  day  we  have  had.  As  I 
entered  the  Park  from  the  southeast,  I met  the  wind 
right  in  the  face.  The  sky  was  gradually  being  over- 
spread with  a gray  cloud  rising  in  the  west.  Snow  began 
to  fall ; the  flakes  danced  about  in  the  gray  atmosphere, 
sweeping  down  into  one’s  eyes.  The  air  was  intensely 
cold,  as  was  the  spirit  of  the  whole  scene— the  leafless 
dusky  bushes,  the  ice-coated  trees,  the  crisp  crunching 
snow. 

We  have  had  autumnal  days  and  spring  days,  but  be- 
fore this  no  winter  day.  Here  was  the  touch,  the  voice, 
the  breath  of  Winter ; the  impression  was  as  vivid  as  that 
created  by  the  first  snowfall.  The  wind  rose  rapidly;  the 
sky  cleared,  the  sun  bursting  out  as  the  snowflakes  still 


158 


STOWE  NOTES 


fell,  and  there  were  sharp  blue  shadows  on  the  snow.  I 
felt  that  strange  and  comfortable  sensation  of  existence, 
of  being— warmly  and  actively  alive  in  the  face  of  such 
white  and  death-like  immobility.  Perhaps  this  accounts 
for  the  fact  of  winter  having  escaped  me  the  past  two 
months.  I have  seen  and  noted  tod  much  life . 

Perhaps  the  associations  of  warmth  and  comfort,  of 
open  blazing  hearths  contrasted  with  outer  cold,  uncon- 
sciously entered  into  the  feeling  of  delight  with  which  I 
saw  the  dull  gray  cloud  mount  in  the  west. 

People's  thoughts  might  take  on  a more  personal  in- 
terest at  this  time  of  the  year ; the  atmospheric  conditions 
in  a primitive  state  would  compel  it.  The  dead  and  chill- 
ing season  adds  another  to  our  winter  coverings;  it 
draws  a close  mantle  of  egotism  about  us. 

People  should  be  more  characteristic,  with  wider 
differences  of  thought,  in  winter  than  in  summer;  like 
wood  and  metal,  we  are  contracted  by  the  cold. 

February. 

It  is  a wonderful,  bright,  warm  spring  sunshine.  On 
the  bridge:  New  York  with  white  wreaths  of  blown 
smoke  along  the  housetops,  the  crawling  ferry-boats 
below,  and  the  wide  stretch  of  the  bay,  bounded  by  the 
long  bow  of  Staten  Island,  on  the  sides  of  which  the 
snow  glimmers. 

A soft  delightful  air.  Home  through  the  Park  by  the 
lower  pond;  children  and  women  skating. 

There  is  something  strange  and  delightful  in  witness- 
ing an  out-of-door  exercise  wherein  women  seem  to 
move  upon  an  equal  footing  with  men.  Of  the  two  on 


NEW  YORK 


159 


the  ice,  the  female  is  decidedly  the  more  interesting  fig- 
ure. Her  skirts  give  her  a dignity  that  is  wanting  to  the 
spindling  trousers  of  the  modern  male  costume.  Every 
movement  gains  in  force  and  significance  with  its  ac- 
companying flow  of  drapery.  There  is  a rakishness  in 
the  swinging  skirt  and  the  flash  of  light  along  the  blade 
of  momentarily  discovered  skate. 


March. 

Buds  on  all  trees  in  Park.  Cloudy  wet  day;  wind 
northeast. 

On  a cold  winter  day  of  one  of  the  two  past  months  in 
the  Park,  the  trees  being  ice-coated  to  their  tiniest  twigs, 
the  whole  face  of  Nature  assumed  a gray  tone,  on  which 
people  moved  with  a startling  effect  of  color. 

[March  12,  1888.] 

Sunday,  and  some  part  of  yesterday,  there  occurred 
the  most  terrific  storm  of  wind  and  snow  that  has  been 
known  for  years  in  this  city — I believe,  the  most  severe 
on  record,  but  it  has  brought  the  redpolls  on  its  white 
wings.  I saw  a flock  in  the  Park  this  afternoon.  They 
had  a way  of  sliding  about  from  twig  to  twig  like  chick- 
adees. 

A mild  spring  day.  The  buds  are  fairly  out ; I notice 
particularly  the  slender  plaited  sheaths  of  the  beech  buds. 
Pass  by  a little  snow-bound  brook  that  is  vociferous 
under  its  coating  of  rotten  ice.  Its  voice  is  a vital  spring 
sound ; it  is  hoarse  with  delight. 

I hear  some  sweet  bird  notes  and  the  thin  whistle  of 


i6o 


STOWE  NOTES 


the  cardinals.  These  I saw,  and  a large  black  glossy  bird 
that  lit  in  the  top  branches  of  a pin  oak,  with  a curious 
“chuck,  chuck.”  I afterward  concluded  this  to  be  a 
grackle. 

As  I was  turning  homeward,  I heard  a strong  and 
thrilling  song;  it  was  like  the  striking  of  a single  bell.  I 
stopped  and  retraced  my  steps.  I saw  the  grackle  in  a 
spruce  about  two  hundred  yards  distant,  and  from  this 
direction  the  song  seemed  to  proceed.  As  I approached, 
the  notes  grew  louder— they  were  singularly  sweet  and 
strong.  I think  I have  not  been  so  deeply  affected  by  a 
bird  note  since  I last  heard  the  hermit  thrushes  in  the 
woods  about  Stowe.  This  was  a startling  outburst,  won- 
derfully sustained.  “Cling,  cling,  cling,  cling,”  it 
chimed,  seeming  to  ring  in  the  spring.  The  grackle  flew 
away  as  I came  close  to  the  tree,  but  the  song  proceeded, 
and  presently  in  the  topmost  branches  I saw  the  male 
cardinal. 

I had  never  before  heard  any  but  their  sharp  winter 
note ; this  was  another  of  the  poetic  revelations  of  spring. 
I experienced  a new  feeling  toward  the  bird.  Before, 
his  courage  and  his  beauty  had  excited  my  admiration ; 
but  his  song  touched  me  deeper.  I used  to  watch  him 
with  a complacent  pleasure,  pleased  at  his  proud  and 
confident  bearing  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  crimson  uni- 
form; but  now  I look  upon  him  with  a new  affection, 
with  a feeling  that  approaches  nearly  to  pity. 

There  is  always  something  pathetic  in  the  manifesta- 
tion of  a touch  of  passion  where  it  seems  strange,  as  in 
the  singing  of  a child.  There  is  a confession,  in  such  a 
case,  of  the  common  pain  of  living— real,  it  may  be,  or 


NEW  YORK 


161 


prophetic;  and  with  regard  to  the  bird,  his  song  found  a 
response,  perhaps,  in  our  common  fate. 

A cloudy  day;  slight  wind  from  the  west;  slight  and 
scattering  falls  of  snow.  From  the  so-called  Ramble 
across  the  lake  come  sweet  summer-like  bird  notes. 
There  I find  a flock  of  fox  sparrows,  some  chickadees  and 
slate-colored  snowbirds.  The  latter,  the  first  I have 
ever  seen,  sober-tinted  birds,  yet  with  a dazzling  display 
of  their  white  tail  feathers ; active  and  pretty,  with  a thin 
wintry  note. 

The  snow  comes  floating  down  in  large  soft  flakes, 
sinking  gently  through  the  air,  but  occasionally  a rising 
gust  will  whirl  them  among  the  trees,  and  fill  the  air  so 
densely  that  one  can  hardly  see  a hundred  yards.  It  is 
very  pleasant,  warm,  and  spring-like  between  these  little 
white  flurries,  and  then  the  birds  are  active.  Three 
grackles  flew  over  my  head  with  a plaintive  unmusical 
cry.  I saw  a hairy  woodpecker,  and  a tiny  sharp-billed 
gray  bird  marked  with  white  and  black  above,  and  below 
buffy-pink— a tiny  creature,  stout  and  comical,  with  a 
fair  stretch  of  wing  but  a small  and  stunted  tail.  It 
seemed  to  be  a creeper,  running  nimbly  along  tree  trunks 
and  branches ; its  beak  was  sharp  and  pointed,  and  it  had 
a curious  way  of  throwing  back  its  head  and  extending 
its  bill  skyward.  It  uttered  a low  strange  note.  It  was,  I 
afterward  discovered  on  visiting  the  case  of  North 
American  birds  at  the  Museum  of  Natural  History,  a 
red-breasted  nuthatch. 

On  my  way  home  I noticed  a commotion  in  the 
boughs  of  an  Austrian  pine,  and  there  beheld  a crossbill, 


STOWE  NOTES 


162 

white-winged  or  American,  burying  his  salmon-colored 
head  and  neck  in  among  the  leaves.  I could  hear  the  click 
of  his  strong  beak.  There  was  a grace  and  silence  in  his 
method  of  feeding  that  suggested  the  hummingbird; 
flitting  from  bough  to  bough  and  alighting,  he  would 
thrust  his  head  into  the  tufts  of  glistening  needles  as  a 
bumblebee  buries  himself  in  a flower. 

As  I passed  a tulip  tree  by  the  drive,  I noticed  some 
of  the  flowers  already  out. 

Home  in  a whirl  of  snowflakes. 

Thermometer  about  twenty.  To-day  cold ; blustering 
wind,  roaring  in  the  branches.  A typical  March  day, 
rude  enough  and  yet  with  a touch  of  caprice — changing 
from  leaden  frowns  to  broad  and  genial  smiles.  A stiff- 
ening wind;  the  trees  seem  to  strengthen  themselves  to 
resist  it;  the  less  stalwart  forms  shrink  before  it.  My 
face  seems  to  harden  into  an  expression  of  determina- 
tion, as  I walk  on  in  the  teeth  of  it. 

Thermometer  still  about  twenty.  The  wind  had 
somewhat  abated  this  morning.  I passed  through  the 
Park  at  about  twelve  o’clock.  In  some  evergreens  by  the 
drive  I heard  several  grackles,  no  very  musical  hearing, 
for  their  note  was  rather  like  the  squeaking  and  grating 
of  rusty  hinges.  In  the  afternoon  I saw  again  the  fox 
sparrows,  and  heard  their  clear  whistling  note.  The 
grosbeaks  were  flying  in  company  with  them.  We  had 
a fine  view  of  the  male,  high  up  in  the  leafless  branches, 
in  the  strong  afternoon  sun. 

The  day  was  like  a winter  day;  even  in  sheltered 


N E W Y O R K 163 

spots  the  warm  sunshine  was  wintry  rather  than  spring- 
like. 

On  our  way  home,  in  a grove  of  pines  I caught  a 
glimpse  of  a bird  that  seemed  strange  to  me.  I was  able 
to  approach  quite  near  to  it,  and  could  see  it  distinctly 
from  below.  It  seemed  to  have  a black  head,  the  back, 
wings,  and  tail  marked  with  black,  white,  and  yellow, 
the  throat,  nape,  and  shoulders  yellow,  the  breast  the 
same  color  tinged  slightly  with  pink,  and  the  rump 
white.  It  was  a bird  of  about  the  size  and  shape  of  a 
pine  grosbeak,  I thought,  not  so  large  as  a robin.  I am 
mightily  inclined  to  believe  it  was  an  evening  grosbeak, 
although  I see  from  Ridgway  that  they  are  only  as  far 
east  (usually  in  winter)  as  Ohio.  Might  not  the  blizzard 
have  brought  this  one?  Its  note  was  a short  melancholy 
chirp.* 

April. 

I have  seen  numerous  juncos,  seed-picking  and  hop- 
ping in  company  with  the  fox  sparrows.  There  are  song 
sparrows  also.  I have  twice  seen  one,  singing  from  the 
branch  of  a tree,  in  that  enraptured  pose,  the  head  in- 
variably thrown  back,  the  ruffled  throat  displayed,  and 
the  tail  depressed  at  an  obtuse  angle  to  the  body. 

Sometimes  toward  evening,  when  the  day  has  been 
mild,  their  song  comes  with  a touching  sweetness  from 
an  unfrequented  little  peninsula,  full  of  a light  growth 
of  young  trees  and  bushes,  that  puts  out  into  the  lake. 

After  some  difficulty  I have  succeeded  in  locating — of 
tracing  to  its  unstable  source— a sweet,  strong  whistling 

* There  seems  to  be  no  previous  record  of  this  bird’s  appearance  in  eastern 
New  York  earlier  than  the  winter  of  1889-90. 


164 


STOWE  NOTES 


song,  a rapid  succession  of  notes,  cheerful  notwithstand- 
ing they  are  of  a contralto  quality— a song  with  none  of 
the  prophetic  sadness  that  is  in  almost  all  bird  music ; it 
is  the  note  of  the  fox  sparrow. 

The  j unco’s  is  a little  shivering  strain,  unmodulated— 
a single  note  shaken  into  the  air,  faint  and  musical. 

For  a few  days  past  the  grass  has  been  pricking  out, 
a strong  bluish  green.  The  evergreens  seem  less  olive 
and  purple,  but  they  will  probably  soon  fade,  sadly  in 
contrast  with  the  deciduous  trees. 

I have  been  vouchsafed  an  especial  revelation : I have 
been  admitted  to  the  company  of  a goddess.  I say  this 
in  the  consciousness  of  a peculiar  and  personal  manifes- 
tation, since  although  the  vision  was  open  to  the  day  and 
in  the  eye  of  many,  they  had  not  the  wit  to  comprehend 
its  full  significance.  I met  Diana  in  Central  Park.  She 
had  outwardly,  in  all  respects,  conformed  to  the  spirit  of 
the  time.  She  was  completely  and  even  fashionably 
dressed.  Her  jacket  was  the  skin  of  an  arctic  seal, 
which  I am  inclined  to  think  she  had  bought;  even  her 
dog,  in  deference  to  the  Park  authorities,  she  held  in 
leash.  The  one  suggestion  of  wildness  that  redeemed 
her  was  a glint  of  crimson  in  her  hat — a gleam  like  a 
scarlet  tanager.  She  was  gayer  than  a goldfinch,  more 
startling  than  a redstart.  She  never  looked  at  me  as  I 
stood  at  the  side  of  the  path,  but  passed  on  with  her  keen, 
soulless  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  distance.  Her  gold  hair 
curled  on  her  low  forehead ; the  Greek  profile  was  still  pre- 
served, the  straight  nose,  the  short  lip,  the  full  chin,  while 
in  her  cheek  the  blood  stirred  with  a tender  vital  glow. 


NEW  YORK 


165 

The  scattering  notes  of  birds  are  carried  past  my  ear 
along  the  strong  west  wind.  There  is  something  ex- 
hilarating in  its  rush  and  tumult ! 

The  peacocks’  screaming  is  blown  faint  to  the  east- 
ward, and  follows  in  the  wind  with  a wild  suggestion. 
Westward  by  the  lake,  where  I sit  down  to  rest,  I hear  a 
musical  twittering,  and,  following  the  sound,  come  upon 
a tiny,  trim,  olive-backed  bird  of  the  color  of  the  outer 
petals  of  a water  lily  that  grow  pale,  even  as  in  this  bird 
the  dusky  olive  of  the  back  fades  to  the  dusky  white  of 
the  breast.  Her  mate,  whom  I saw  a few  seconds  after- 
ward, gave  me  the  clue  to  her  variety  and  sex;  she  was 
the  female  gold-crowned  kinglet.  The  male  I saw  close 
by.  He  was  less  shy;  in  the  confidence  of  his  innocence, 
he  flitted  among  the  bushes  within  four  feet  of  my  ap- 
proach. 

I was  doubtful  of  him  for  an  instant,  for,  as  he 
turned,  the  gold  of  his  crown  glimmered  so  ruddy  on  the 
occiput  that  I thought  perhaps  he  might  be  a ruby-crown, 
but  the  two  dark  streaks  bordering  the  gold  identified 
him.  He  uttered  a note  something  like  a chickadee’s. 

I saw  a goldfinch,  and  afterward  heard  him  singing 
in  the  boughs  of  a spruce.  As  he  left  the  tree,  he  rested 
for  an  instant,  silhouetted  on  a twig  against  the  sun,  and 
then  took  flight  with  the  light  springing  motion  that  is 
characteristic  of  his  merry  mood.  He’s  a slim  and  dainty 
creature. 

On  the  bank  at  the  water’s  edge  a swan  sat  asleep,  a 
soft  and  dazzling  object,  under  the  open  boughs  of  a pin 
oak  that  threw  angular  shadows  on  the  grass.  The  wind 
was  somewhat  lulled,  and  the  sunshine  so  warm  as  to 


STOWE  NOTES 


1 66 

cheat  our  senses  with  an  atmosphere  of  summer  and 
give  play  to  the  warmer  current  of  summer  fancies.  One 
might  have  looked  for  a more  startling  sight  beyond  the 
bend  of  the  little  peninsula,  for  a sleep  more  poetic  than 
that  of  a swan,  a substance  more  delicate  than  his  softest 
feathers,  more  luminous  than  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
his  wings.  Not  to  push  the  thought  into  an  uninspired 
commonplace,  leaving  the  vulgar  instance  of  Leda  un- 
molested, what  a startling  idea  is  that  of  the  Greek 
admiration  of  humanity  and  nature,  dissociated  from 
the  coldness  of  its  sculptured  transmission ! 

April  in  this  climate  is,  however,  too  harsh  for  us  to 
see  the  migrations  of  the  nymphs.  The  robin  and  the 
song  sparrow,  birds  of  the  open  spring  and  windy  mead- 
ows, are  not  their  harbingers.  They  come  with  the  mys- 
tery of  leaves,  and  haunt  dusky  places  with  the  wood 
thrush. 

There  was  a touch  of  inclemency  in  the  air  that  made 
one  shiver  almost  in  the  instant  of  suggestion. 

In  the  warm  shelter  of  the  Ramble  I saw  again  the 
gold-crowned  kinglets,  and,  flitting  in  the  self-same 
manner  among  some  box-like  bushes,  their  near  connec- 
tions, the  ruby-crowned — birds  a trifle  larger,  plump  and 
sleek,  with  bright  confident  eye.  The  crown  of  the  male 
is  a brilliant  crimson  with  a metallic  lustre  that  gives  life 
to  it,  and  the  female,  unlike  the  female  gold-crowned, 
has  some  touch,  a reflection  as  it  were,  of  her  little  lord's 
glory. 

The  cardinal  grosbeak  sang  from  the  bough  of  a pin 
oak  over  the  water.  His  song  is  less  sweet,  in  contrast 


NEW  YORK 


167 

with  the  increase  of  melodious  spring  notes,  but  his  atti- 
tude is  as  poetic  as  the  song  sparrow’s,  with  as  much  con- 
fidence, and  with  force  that  is  lacking  in  the  latter. 

There’s  an  old  cherry  tree,  a beautiful  one,  by  which 
I like  to  sit,  for  there  is  an  association  of  childhood  with 
these  trees— such  a one  as  this  with  gnarled  boughs  and 
cracked  bark,  as  if  the  coating  were  grown  too  small  for 
the  swelling  trunk. 

I watch  the  swans  on  the  lake.  They  are  swimming 
about  with  curved  necks,  and  with  wings  made  like  a cup 
to  receive  the  sunshine,  half  opened  like  water  lilies. 
They  are  moving  within  a narrow  circle,  turning  with  a 
swift  stroke  that  sets  their  buoyant  bodies  rocking  and 
the  water  rippling  from  under  their  breasts,  just  as  boats 
anchored  in  conflicting  currents  swing  about  and  are 
suddenly  checked  by  the  tightening  of  their  moorings. 
They  move  with  a proud  but  gentle  dignity.  I think 
there  is  no  animal,  except  perhaps  the  larger  feline  types, 
that  has  so  lofty  an  air.  They  became  the  sunshine ; their 
beauty  made  it  seem  tender  and  caressing.  As  they  ap- 
proached the  shore,  their  full-feathered  forms  seemed 
softer,  firmer,  more  luminous,  even,  than  human 
flesh. 

I returned  to  the  lake  later  in  the  day.  It  is  strange 
how  the  change  of  season,  and  even  a change  of  light, 
will  alter  the  aspect  of  some  familiar  spot.  The  whole 
scene  was  new  to  me.  The  lake  reflected  the  sky,  and  the 
swans  floated  like  clouds  upon  it. 

As  I turned  homeward,  I heard  the  cardinal,  and  saw 
him  a hundred  yards  away,  on  a hilltop,  in  the  upper 
branches  of  a tree,  a little  black  spot  against  the  sunset, 


1 68 


STOWE  NOTES 


while  his  song  was  in  the  air  all  about  me.  It  is  some- 
thing like  this— if  whispered,  it  conveys  some  idea  of  the 
notes,  the  prefix  pt  almost  silent,  a hint  for  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  lips : ‘Ttcheeow,  ptcheeow,  ptcheeow, 
ptcheeow,  ptchew,  tch-ou.”  Its  musical  quality  varies  in 
respect  of  distance. 

There  are  mares’-tails  overhead,  and  the  swans 
crossed  the  lake  with  beating  wings  and  their  bugle-like 
call.  There  will  certainly  be  rain  to-morrow. 

Just  before  sunset  the  air  was  quiet ; there  was  that 
hush  and  stillness  through  which  we  move  involuntarily 
on  the  alert— the  pause  seemed  to  threaten. 

We  lose  confidence  when  Nature  ceases  to  smile  and 
seems  to  brood ; like  children,  we  must  hear  her  voice  and 
feel  the  touch  of  her  hands.  The  murmur  and  contact 
of  the  wind  is  a cure  for  loneliness.  To  be  happy  we 
must  be  continually  reassured  by  some  present  mani- 
festation, unless  it  be  terrible  in  itself. 

Hylas  first  heard,  the  night  of  the  18th,  after  a south 
wind. 

May. 

To-day  is  close  and  misty,  although  not  by  any 
means  so  warm  as  the  preceding  days  of  latter  April, 
when  the  thermometer  reached  eighty-three  or  even 
eighty-six,  I think. 

About  the  28th  of  April  I noticed  the  horse-chestnuts 
out  and  the  willows,  and  on  the  30th  the  latter,  along  the 
lower  lake,  glittered  like  gauze,  a delicate  gold-green  in 
the  sunlight.  That  day  also  a certain  western  variety  of 


NEW  YORK 


169 


maple  was  out,  both  flower  and  leaf.  The  poplar  buds 
were  not  yet  burst  and  the  aments  were  undeveloped, 
many  of  them  scattered  on  the  ground,  cut  off  by  the 
sparrows  probably. 

There  was  a great  variety  of  bird  notes,  loud  in  the 
heavy  atmosphere— the  cheerful  song  of  the  robins, 
which  if  less  common  would  be  reckoned  a beautiful  song 
indeed,  and  the  cardinal’s  loud  alarm  from  a tree-top, 
where  with  some  difficulty  I traced  and  discovered  him, 
radiant,  facing  the  sun. 

By  the  lake  just  before  sunset,  in  the  thick  atmo- 
sphere that  hung  white  and  dense  like  milk  on  the  hori- 
zon, I saw  two  swallows  circling,  dipping,  and  winging 
themselves  away.  The  sight  made  me  realize  for  the 
first  time  that  this  is  the  end  and  not  the  beginning  of 
spring.  It  was  the  first  intimation  of  summer. 

Swallows  are  indelibly  associated  with  all  my 
thoughts  of  summer,  notably  with  warm  and  quiet  even- 
ings— twilight  time,  which  is  the  moment  that  mem- 
ory best  lays  hold  of. 

Trees  all  out.  Summer  heat.  Light  on  cut  grass — 
blue  in  long  grass,  and  again  soon  after  cutting,  with  the 
severed  blades  horizontally  on  surface. 

Wood  thrush’s  song  to  other  bird  notes  as  Venus  is 
to  the  lesser  lights  of  heaven— brighter,  with  a ray  of 
particular  and  exquisite  color,  and  scintillant  when  other 
stars  are  dim.  Velvet-topped  robins— their  cheerful 
notes.  The  scissors  note  of  the  grackle. 

I heard  a cardinal  down  by  the  lower  lake,  where 


170 


STOWE  NOTES 


native  birds  are  for  the  most  part  strangers,  and  saw 
him,  a little  spot  of  living  crimson  against  the  sky. 

Another  overcast  and  sultry  day;  wind  from  the 
east.  The  atmosphere  of  the  Park  is  that  of  a vast  hot- 
house, close,  moist;  and  in  the  stirring  air  a pleasant 
chill. 

Sweet  summer  scent — scattered  cherry  and  syringa 
blossoms  swept  by;  dogwood  just  appearing,  and  also 
lilac.  The  horse-chestnuts  alone  furnish  an  adequate 
shade  and  fill  the  eye  gratefully,  where  the  thinly  cov- 
ered twigs  of  other  trees  are  open  to  the  sultry  air. 

June. 

To-day  is  warm,  yet  with  the  vital  quality  and  the 
wind  of  summer.  Certain  walks  in  the  Park  lately  open 
to  the  sun  are  now  dark  and  cool,  made  remote  and  wan- 
dering by  the  mystery  of  the  foliage.  The  air  is  full  of 
odors,  above  all  the  delightful  scent  of  mown  grass.  The 
oaks  are  beautiful  in  new  and  glistening  greens.  The 
cypresses  show  a close  green  fringe  along  the  branches, 
and  the  Osage  oranges  are  out.  The  magnolia  blossoms 
are  dead  and  dying,  but  the  leaves  are  beautiful.  The 
lilac  is  a departed  delight. 

Saw  again  a blackpoll  warbler,  and  a wood  thrush 
that  hopped  within  twelve  feet  of  where  I sat  watching 
him,  and  who  several  times  gave  utterance  softly  to  his 
inimitable  note : “Schee-loo,  churyll-eetz !” 

The  other  morning  early  the  nighthawks  were  sin- 
gularly loud.  Now  and  for  several  evenings  past  a sad 
wild  sound,  the  quavering  voices  of  frogs,  can  be  heard 


NEW  YORK 


171 

by  the  lesser  ponds.  It  rings  in  the  ears  like  an  old, 
familiar,  and  melancholy  song;  as  sad  as  autumn,  it  fills 
the  mind  with  the  same  indefinable  melancholy — the 
melancholy  of  sunset  and  of  distant  sounds. 

An  atalanta  butterfly  lit  on  my  coat  and  hung  there 
for  some  time  as  I walked  along.  I don’t  think  I ever 
saw  a butterfly  more  beautiful  than  this,  with  her  glow- 
ing golden  circle.  The  name  in  itself  conveys  beautiful 
suggestions:  “Cynthia  atalanta” — Cynthia,  the  sylvan 
goddess,  and  Atalanta,  the  maiden  of  nimble  heels,  swift 
but  vacillating,  the  very  type  of  the  feminine  mind — and 
the  story  is  but  half  interpreted  when  her  departures 
from  the  straight  course  are  attributed  to  curiosity. 

A lovely  day ; the  Park  crowded.  Clear  soft  sky,  and 
a summer  wind  in  the  trees.  Little  clouds  on  the  western 
horizon,  so  saturated  with  sunshine  that  they  seemed  in 
themselves  to  be  a source  of  light. 

The  distinctive  quality  of  the  wind  in  summer  is  that 
it  blows  fresh,  as  if  from  an  unpolluted  and  distant 
source ; there  is  something  in  it  that  brings  suggestions 
of  space,  a free  and  limitless  intimation.  It  seems  to 
speak  of  the  universal  country,  to  blow  over  the  round 
of  the  earth  from  below  the  horizon.  To-day,  as  it 
rushes  past,  I think  perhaps  it  may  have  risen  in  the 
Gulf,  passed  over  the  sandy  stretches  of  Florida,  and 
caught  some  of  the  dry  sweet  odors  among  the  pine  for- 
ests of  Georgia.  Wherever  it  travels,  it  collects  and  car- 
ries the  sweetest  and  most  healthful  scents;  foul  and 
heavy  odors  follow  feebly,  and  sink  in  the  pure  and  rush- 
ing air.  The  damp-laden  winds  of  spring  seem  in  com- 
parison lifeless  and  heavy — feeble  local  stirrings. 


172 


STOWE  NOTES 


New  Rochelle,  New  York, 

June. 

The  beat  of  a steamer’s  paddles,  loud  and  growing, 
but  the  steamer  invisible.  The  answering  fog-horns  like 
bass  notes  in  an  organ,  sometimes  singularly  musical. 

Lilac  sunset  sky,  green  sea,  same  value;  hot  Oriental- 
like sunset,  dense  ragged  cloud  above  burning  waters; 
black  stretches  of  shore. 

Fog:  Curious  effect  looking  across  the  fog-hung 
water,  following  each  faintly  delineated  ripple  further 
out  and  out,  until  suddenly,  the  sight  becoming  confused, 
the  distance  is  lost  and  the  white  wall  closes  in  upon  one. 
It  is  in  some  aspects  terrible,  to-day  mysterious.  Hollow 
voices  and  strange  palpitations— a confusion  of  noises 
behind  this  dispersed  and  impenetrable  veil. 

To-night  is  the  night  of  the  full  moon,  which  silvers 
the  further  side  of  the  Sound  and  lies  sparkling  among 
the  waves  below  my  window.  The  lapping  water  makes 
a continuous  accompaniment  to  terrestrial  sounds.  The 
crickets  are  shrill.  A bat  fluttered  under  the  piazza  to- 
night. The  twittering  of  flying  swallows;  grackles  on 
the  shore  at  low  tide. 

Morning,  4.20.  It  is  very  light,  although  the  sun  is 
not  yet  risen  above  the  haze  that  clothes  the  horizon — a 
purple  mist  that  gives  the  water  infinite  width  and  mys- 
tery. The  throbbing  of  a steamer  comes  loud  over  the 
glassy  Sound.  It  is  low  tide,  and  the  brown  seaweed- 
hung  rocks  are  singularly  dark  against  the  pale  water 


o 


NEW  YORK 


173 


that  is  tinged  with  the  faint  colors  of  the  sky,  where 
float  slender  wreaths  of  vapor.  There  are  two  clam 
dredgers  anchored  just  beyond  the  rocks.  The  notes  of 
song  sparrows  are  frequent;  I can  see  them  flying  from 
tree  to  tree.  The  air  is  misty,  the  neighboring  promon- 
tory is  dim.  The  sun  rises  red  through  the  trees  with  a 
dark  and  sanguinary  glow — a sunrise  that  presages  a 
hot  day. 

Last  night  the  full  moon  rose,  a large  and  pale  ma- 
genta disk,  hardly  discernible  on  the  horizon.  The  sea 
was  of  a leaden  blue  and  the  sky  heavily  overcast.  At 
about  a hand's  breadth  over  the  horizon  the  moon,  then 
shining  with  a dull  reddish  light,  like  an  enormous  Jap- 
anese lantern,  gradually  disappeared  behind  a level  line 
of  cloud,  a narrow  but  heavy  band  that  cut  through  the 
circumference  with  a sharp  and  unshattered  edge.  She 
was  thus  diminished  from  three  quarters  to  the  half, 
from  half  to  a quarter,  growing  shallower  until  she  dis- 
appeared entirely  and  her  dwindling  reflection  alike  for- 
sook the  face  of  the  Sound  beneath.  Later  she  shone 
with  a strange  effect  of  pallor,  her  face  overspread  with 
a thin  greenish  veil. 

At  five  o'clock  this  morning  the  sun  was  hid  in  a bank 
of  clouds.  The  water  glassily  still.  Another  hot  day, 
I fear. 

Last  night  was  a night  of  eccentric  gleams,  of 
strange  effects  of  illumination.  The  stars  shone  dim;  a 
few  were  discernible  in  the  loft  of  the  sky.  A falling 
star  trailed  a pale  thread  of  light  behind  the  clouds. 


174 


STOWE  NOTES 


Rockets  and  other  fireworks  shot  into  the  air  from 
beyond  the  Point — a rain  of  golden  fire  that  shook  down 
behind  the  dark  trees.  Fireflies  danced  over  the  grass 
and  in  among  the  branches.  Guns  were  fired  from  the 
yachts — a violent  concussion  in  the  air,  a bursting  de- 
tonation followed  by  a cavernous  yawn,  a vast  and  hol- 
low sigh  that  seemed  to  pass  slowly  around  the  horizon. 

Of  the  thunder,  loud  and  near,  a snapping  noise,  if 
such  a term  can  be  applied  to  so  heavy  a sound;  also 
crashing,  splintering  noises  and  cannon-like  detonations, 
so  sudden  and  strange  as  hardly  at  the  moment  to  sug- 
gest the  source  and  nature  of  the  sound,  which  brings  an 
after-realization  in  the  full  and  heavy  rolling.  Light  on 
Sound  after  thunder-storm  vivid  green,  shadowed  sur- 
face dull  purplish  blue. 

Beautiful  sunsets  here,  and  a vast  expanse  of  sky  for 
the  swing  of  the  constellations,  not  encroached  upon  by 
any  swell  of  the  land,  which  here  lies  flat;  and  southward 
the  horizon  is  almost  as  level  as  the  sea. 

July. 

Two  days  ago  there  was  a storm  from  the  southeast— 
a steady  howling  wind,  so  strong  that  this  high  room 
in  the  southeast  corner,  where  I write,  rocked  in  the  gale. 
The  spray  was  blown  like  salt  over  the  rocks,  and  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  go  over  the  surface  of  the  Sound  white- 
caps  danced.  The  trees  were  tortured  and  tugged, 
'housed  joint  by  joint” ; they  were  shrill  in  protest.  The 
wind  howled  at  the  corners  of  the  house,  a prolonged  and 
inarticulate  cry. 

We  built  a fire  in  the  parlor;  it  made  us  think  of 


NEW  YORK 


175 


autumn ; it  shone  cheerily,  it  became  the  centre  and  gath- 
ering-point of  the  house.  This  building  that  had  before 
been  a shelter,  a soulless  tenement,  became  a home  in 
virtue  of  that  sacred  flame.  It  was  a delight  to  sit  before 
the  blaze  and  hear  the  troubled  night  yawn  and  ruffle 
about  the  house. 

The  next  morning  the  vines  on  the  porch  were  limp 
and  withered,  as  if  scorched  by  fire.  The  place  was 
strewn  with  leaves  and  broken  twigs.  I walked  down  to 
the  beach ; it  was  cold  and  overcast. 

Last  evening  it  was  warm;  the  sky  full  of  stars, 
palely  reflected  in  the  Sound.  Moths  flew  in  at  the  open 
windows. 

Clouds  were  rising  in  the  west-northwest;  the  sky 
suddenly  grew  dark ; the  wind  came  up  with  a rush,  and 
the  house  was  all  at  once  filled  with  wild  and  whistling 
noises.  Without,  there  was  a great  moaning,  and  sud- 
den cries  swallowed  up  in  the  steady  roar  and  the  fierce 
hissing  of  the  leaves.  Crack  and  cranny  began  to  pipe 
and  whistle — the  wind  came  through  keyholes  like  a 
voice.  The  air  was  cold.  The  sound  of  thunder  was 
muffled  in  the  wind ; lightning  fell  at  long  intervals. 

This  morning,  wind  from  the  same  quarter,  blowing 
steadily  cold.  Saw  a kingfisher,  and  also  swallows — 
their  wonderful  flight,  so  silent  that  though  they  some- 
times passed  within  a few  feet  of  my  head,  I could  not 
hear  their  wings.  What  swallow  is  this,  rough-winged 
or  bank? 

The  wind  has  gone  around  to  the  north-northeast, 
and  brings  with  it  a fine  misty  rain. 


STOWE  NOTES 


176 

I have  been  along  the  beach  to  Larchmont;  coming 
back,  I saw  in  an  oak  tree  a male  red-headed  wood- 
pecker-rare, Ridgway  says,  east  of  Hudson  River. 

Coming  of  a storm:  Windy  but  pleasant  afternoon. 
Wind  (north?)  blowing  out  from  the  shore;  water 
placid,  its  surface  wrinkled  in  the  wind.  Far  away  in  the 
southeast  a hollow  sky  of  rain,  rising  and  stealing  east- 
ward along  the  coast,  obliterating  the  land  point  by  point. 
A heavy  leaden  cloud  arched  like  a hog's  back,  with  the 
snout  thrust  into  the  southwestern  sky,  hangs  above  the 
empty  waste,  the  gray  hollow  of  the  rain.  The  shadow 
of  this  cloud  moves  under  it,  yet  the  sails  are  still  white 
in  the  sun,  and  gleam  upon  the  dark,  except  that  far  in 
the  distance,  some  already  in  the  rain  move  like  phantom 
ships  on  the  horizon. 

Looking  away,  the  lead  changes  to  bottle-green,  and 
that  to  a dark  blue  line  on  the  very  edge,  in  which 
through  the  glass  one  can  see  white-caps  dancing. 

The  wind  comes  suddenly;  as  it  flies,  the  water 
darkles  below  and  breaks  into  points  and  sparks  of  foam. 
It  comes  with  a rush,  and  immediately  there  is  a distant 
squeal  and  whistle  in  the  air.  The  trees  bend  and  hiss, 
dead  leaves  hid  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks  leap  up,  whirl 
giddily  about,  and  away  with  a hop  and  a scurry. 

A mist  of  rain  lies  over  the  dark  water  line  of  the 
horizon,  which  shows  dimly  through,  and  sails  that  scud 
upon  it  hang  like  a mirage.  Boats  run  before  the  jib;  a 
yacht  passes  under  bare  poles. 

Rain  begins  to  fall ; the  storm  goes  about,  however, 
to  the  south,  and  presently  streaks  of  brilliant  green  ap- 
pear in  the  dark  purple  sea. 


NEW  YORK 


177 


The  sun  is  out  again.  It  proves  to  be,  however,  but  a 
temporary  lull,  for  in  a moment  the  east  is  dark,  the 
winds  blow,  and  the  rain  falls. 

To-day  warmer,  pleasant,  a sparkling  sea.  This 
morning  some  one  of  the  family  finds  in  the  road  a crip- 
pled specimen  of  the  Attacus  polyphemus.  I have  it  now 
upon  my  table.  It  is  drenched,  beaten,  and  bedraggled 
by  wind  and  rain,  with  one  of  its  antennae  gone.  As  I 
set  it  down  it  quivers  as  if  in  a silent  agony. 

Warm  and  hazy  day.  Fleet  of  yachts  like  a game  at 
quoits  with  clam  shells,  all  inclined  the  same  way,  white 
and  hollow,  skimming  the  surface  of  the  Sound. 

Warm  day.  Passed  over  beach,  and  while  there  I 
saw  hovering  over  the  mill-pond  a large  bird  which  gave 
utterance  to  a hoarse  discordant  cry.  I looked  at  it 
through  the  glass,  and  found  it  to  be  a heron.  Its  head 
and  neck  seemed  to  be  of  a dark  maroon-brown,  whitish 
in  front,  and  wings  and  back  a glossy  blue.  It  must  have 
been  a little  blue  heron.  It  lit  upon  the  marshy  edge  and 
fell  hidden  in  the  grass.  I afterward  saw  two  standing 
on  a little  island — the  little  blue  heron  as  before,  and  one 
that  seemed  to  me  to  be  a green  heron. 

I crossed  over  the  beach  and  struck  into  a narrow 
sunken  lane  running  inland  along  the  borders  of  the 
mill-pond.  The  grass  rose  high,  brier  roses  showed 
their  delicate  petals  along  the  banks,  and  Virginia 
creeper  and  poison  ivy  clung  on  the  tree  trunks.  The 
meadow  grasses  mingled  with  white  and  yellow  daisies 


178 


STOWE  NOTES 


stretched  to  the  right  on  a level  with  the  eye,  and  above 
them  hovered  bobolinks  shaking  out  their  mad  and  merry 
jingles. 

The  trees  that  bordered  the  lane  were  cedar,  sassafras 
(of  which  there  were  many  shrubs),  and  wild  black 
cherry,  and  among  the  boughs  of  the  latter  the  bobolinks 
settled  and  swayed  and  sang. 

Among  the  rocks  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  beach 
were  some  small  birds  of  the  snipe  kind. 

The  singing  of  the  bugle  from  the  fort  several  miles 
away  came  distinctly  over  the  water,  and  last  night  at 
sunset,  with  a hollow  sound. 

Fireflies  in  the  grass  and  the  dark  woody  places. 
Bats,  and  earlier  a large,  apparently  polyphemus  moth, 
fluttering  high,  straight  from  the  water  and  on  across  the 
mill-pond  landward.  Is  it  possible  that  it  could  have 
crossed  the  great  width  of  the  Sound  from  Long  Island? 

Stars  seen  dimly  in  the  Sound,  misty  and  lengthened 
reflections,  silent  palpitating  echoes  of  crystalline  lights, 
like  exquisite  notes  of  pure  melody  submitted  to  a linger- 
ing low  interpretation. 


No V l 


VERMONT 


Stowe,  Vermont, 

October. 

This  is  Sunday  morning,  and  instead  of  going  to 
Mr.  Marshall's  church  I went  to  Mr.  Lovejoy's  cathe- 
dral. It  is  as  beautiful  as  St.  John's  vision  of  heaven; 
its  sides  are  hung  and  shingled  with  plates  of  gold.  I 
pass  in  at  one  of  the  towering  entrances,  and  find  myself 
in  the  vast  dim  interior,  with  its  noble  piers  of  straight- 
grained basswood,  rock  maple,  and  painted  beech ; there 
are  lighter  columns  of  the  yellow  birch,  gleaming  like 
metal.  Above  are  the  bright  and  rustling  draperies  of  the 
roof,  green  and  golden;  below  is  a soft  and  beautiful 
carpet  that  muffles  my  tread.  There's  a holy  stillness 
here,  broken  by  a faint  whisper,  the  murmur  of  prayer. 

At  this  time  of  year  the  little  choristers  are  gone ; and 
to-day  the  organist,  who  is  the  wind,  is  absent.  What 
church  in  the  world  can  boast  of  such  a choir? — the 
summer  warblers,  the  vireo  and  the  catbird,  the  plaintive 
wood  pewee,  the  cheery  robin,  the  rose-breasted  gros- 
beak and  the  blithe  song  sparrow,  and  all  day  long  and 
late  into  the  twilight  the  exquisite  notes  of  the  hermit 
thrush;  and  withal  to  hear  that  mysterious  murmur  of 
prayer  whispered  in  the  Gothic  arches  of  the  beech  and 
maple,  or  finding  a deeper  and  more  solemn  echo  in  the 
old  coniferous  Norman,  the  dark  boughs  of  spruce  or 
hemlock. 


179 


i8o 


STOWE  NOTES 


Wind  from  the  north.  Up  to  F.’s  hill,  and  in  the 
once  dim  and  shady  hollow,  now  opened  to  the  light  by 
the  thinning  trees,  I found  some  white  violets. 

To-day  the  thermometer  at  about  forty-two.  Yester- 
day the  apples  were  frozen  on  the  trees  and  the  vege- 
tables in  the  ground ; but  undismayed,  these  delicate  little 
flowers,  whose  native  air  is  the  soft  spring  winds,  start 
like  pale  memories  of  summer  up  from  the  cold  and  leaf- 
littered  ground. 

Oh,  these  noble  maples ! They  bear  their  golden  bur- 
dens, their  mantles  of  flame,  with  a constant  heart.  The 
butternut  leaves  are  shed,  and  from  the  ground  about 
them,  from  the  fallen  leaves,  arises  the  nutty,  almost  rank 
scent,  the  most  characteristic  odor  of  autumn. 

Beyond  the  ridge,  facing  the  north  wind,  the  Moun- 
tain is  in  mist;  a fine  snow  is  falling.  The  soft  roar  of 
the  wind  is  in  my  ears,  and  borne  shrilly  upon  it  is  the 
wild  calling  of  jays  from  the  dark  copse  of  evergreen 
westward. 

A song  sparrow  starts  up  from  the  shrivelled  brake 
and  flies  silently  away,  and  hides  in  the  boughs  of  a little 
fir  tree ; later  a flight  of  robins  among  the  tree-tops,  their 
voices  cracked  and  feeble,  their  coloring  dull  and  faded. 

In  the  hollows  the  slight  whisper  of  the  grasses  and 
ferns  is  distinctly  audible. 

Wind  northwest.  Bright  sunny  day.  On  F.’s  hill, 
and  beyond  to  my  woody  thrush-haunted  walk,  where  in 
the  boughs  of  some  dim  hemlocks  I saw  a Wilson  thrush, 
I think.  Mount  Mansfield  majestic  and  beautiful  in  so 
hoary  a setting,  and  the  Ftogbacks  with  frosted  ridges. 


o w 


VERMONT 


181 


Sweet  crisp  air.  Powder  of  the  pollen  rises  on  the 
wind  at  almost  every  step. 

Later,  drive ; sky  overcast,  leaden,  lowering ; dun-col- 
ored mass  over  the  white  profile.  Cold,  cold — home  with 
the  west  wind  beating  cold  raindrops  into  our  faces. 

Rain,  southwest  wind.  The  trees  and  grasses  seem 
to  shiver  in  this  cold  wind,  yet  it  is  a congenial  atmo- 
spherical manifestation.  The  chilly  drops  flatter  the 
pale  violets  from  the  rich  dark  mould  of  woody  hollows. 
The  full  and  plumed  ferns  take  sustenance  from  the 
moist  air;  it  paints  the  boles  of  the  velvet  beeches,  and 
passes  with  the  breath  of  life  through  these  cold  north- 
ern woods. 

Snow  all  the  early  part  of  the  8th.  Went  out  at  half 
past  five;  the  fine  hard  frozen  snow  made  a continuous 
hissing  in  the  leaves.  The  sky  was  broken  in  the  south. 
Across  the  dark  covered  bridge,  and  out  where  the 
shadow  was  like  a tide  along  the  muddy  road ; the  snow 
on  the  grasses  and  fences. 

The  sun  had  set  obscured  by  the  clouds ; it  was  a sad 
wintry  twilight.  On  the  crown  of  a little  hill  that  com- 
mands a view  of  Mansfield  there  was  nothing  whatever 
to  be  seen  of  the  Mountain,  only  masses  of  moving  and 
trailing  vapor.  The  roofs  and  plowed  fields  on  the 
Sterling  slope  were  all  white.  A leafless  elm  stood  out 
against  the  leaden  clouds.  It  was  cheerless  in  the  ex- 
treme, so  strange  and  yet  familiar,  like  a country  in  a 
dream.  Far  away  I heard  the  baying  of  a house-dog;  it 
carried  with  a hollow  detonative  sound  across  the  cold 


STOWE  NOTES 


182 

pastures.  A bear  was  seen  in  this  neighborhood  not 
long  ago. 

Snow  still  falling.  Drove  in  the  morning  to  Moss 
Glen  Falls.  The  plowed  land,  the  roofs,  the  fences,  and 
the  bridges  take  the  snow  well ; it  melts  on  the  open  road. 
The  woods  and  the  pastures  are  silvered  with  it,  and  it 
falls  so  thickly  that  the  mountains  and  all  things  not  of 
the  immediate  neighborhood  are  shut  completely  out. 
The  Falls  are  very  full,  owing  to  the  late  heavy  rains. 
The  mould  in  the  hemlock  wood  has  a thick  coating  of 
snow. 

The  beautiful  delicate  silver-green  hemlocks ! Their 
branches  are  outspread  at  the  angle  of  admonition. 
There  is  complete  silence  here  and  on  the  shores  of  the 
mill-dam,  except  for  the  rush  of  the  Fall.  The  water  is 
higher  than  it  was  last  summer.  The  little  trees  on  the 
edge  are  doubtless  dead;  they  stand  leafless,  and  are  re- 
flected in  the  quiet  mere.  The  moon-silvered  roof  in  the 
hollow  is  now  silvered  with  snow.  I can  barely  see  it 
through  the  falling  flakes,  and  beyond,  pale,  like  breaks 
in  a cloud,  the  white  pastures  on  the  Hogback  slope  show 
dimly  through  the  mist. 

Coming  home,  we  started  a flock  of  bluebirds.  They 
were  brilliant  in  azure  and  cinnamon,  their  breasts  as  red 
as  ever  I saw  robins’.  They  were  lingering  in  the  corn- 
fields, where  the  glowing  pumpkins  showed  their  warm 
and  cheering  countenances  in  the  stacks  of  gray  and 
withered  corn-stalks. 

I have  seen  juncos  and  myrtle  warblers  by  flocks. 
The  country  is  fairly  overflown  by  these  latter. 


VERMONT 


183 


The  elms,  ash  trees,  butternut,  basswood  in  open 
spaces,  and  witch-hazel  are  mostly  bereft  of  their 
leaves.  The  basswood  in  woods  holds  them  well;  they 
turn  a dark  purple-brown.  The  rock  maple  and  beech 
are  the  most  constant. 

In  the  woods  a new  tint,  the  mauve,  the  pale  purplish- 
brown  hue  of  withered  leaves,  begins  to  show  itself.  The 
dark  and  rugged  tops  of  the  hemlocks  stand  conspicuous 
on  the  light  glistening  hillsides.  Apple  trees  are  brown 
and  withered.  The  alders  look  frost-bitten  and  faded; 
the  willows  are  still  untouched. 

The  other  morning  (breaking  clear  before  this  over- 
cast and  dismal  time)  showed  the  higher  ridges  of  the 
Hogback,  where  the  snow  still  hung  in  the  spruces,  lift- 
ing silver  spears,  sharp  frosty  points,  against  the  pale 
blue  sky. 

In  the  woods  in  the  rain;  the  constant  dripping  is  a 
melancholy  accompaniment  to  my  steps.  Wreaths  of 
mist  hang  like  smoke  in  the  sides  of  the  Hogback  range, 
which  is  mostly  obscured,  as  are  all  the  mountains,  with 
heavy  rolling  vapors.  The  distant  slopes  are  dark  and 
desolate. 

There  are  huge  maples  here,  and  basswood  trees  of 
great  girth  rising  straight  out  of  the  confusion  of 
branch  and  leaf,  and  beeches,  the  most  beautiful,  I think, 
I ever  saw. 

In  one  there  is  imprisoned  the  spirit  of  some  hapless 
dryad.  It  droops  sadly  all  to  one  side,  its  branches  fall 
with  a gentle  and  melancholy  grace ; the  swelling  trunk, 


184 


STOWE  NOTES 


parting  above,  writhes  upward  in  curves  that  could  re- 
sult only  from  such  fervent  and  delicate  despair. 

Home  by  a hollow  where  rose  the  sweet  smell  of  wil- 
lows and  alders. 

Yesterday  afternoon  the  wind  veered  to  the  north- 
west, and  a patch  of  blue  showed  in  the  clouds.  Toward 
evening  the  upper  northern  sky  was  free,  and  later,  as  I 
looked  from  the  lighted  parlor  out  on  the  night,  a star 
shone  and  quivered  in  the  dark  space  of  the  window. 

Outside  it  was  cold,  and  as  clear  as  crystal,  except 
southward,  where  the  moon,  something  beyond  half, 
mounted  among  thin  lateral  clouds.  The  distant  moun- 
tains rose  in  dark  waves  against  the  sky.  The  solemn 
profile,  white  and  ghostly  in  its  snowy  mask,  blent  into 
the  pale  starlit  space.  It  was  only  in  those  far-away 
looks,  those  indirect  and  vanishing  glimpses,  that  its  out- 
line was  made  manifest. 

The  stars  scintillated  with  strange  intensity.  They 
seemed  sometimes  to  vanish  altogether ; they  glowed  and 
paled  like  the  pulse  of  heaven,  beating  with  passionate 
fervor.  The  night  was  silent,  except  for  the  slight  stir 
in  the  dark  cloudy  branches  of  the  white  pine  before  the 
house.  A collie  barked,  and  was  answered  from  a dis- 
tant farm-yard. 

The  willows  in  the  valley  are  some  bare  and  all  brown 
and  frost-nipped.  The  hillsides  are  light  and  cloudy 
with  bare  twigs. 

Yesterday’s  snow-storm  made  evident  the  thinness  of 
the  foliage  by  marking  out  the  boughs  and  trunks  in  lines 
of  white,  for  the  snow  was  driven  level  on  a strong 


VERMONT 


i85 


southwest  wind,  that  all  the  evening  and  the  early  part 
of  the  night  hallooed  and  whistled  about  the  house  like  a 
ghostly  giant  calling  his  stray  dog. 

Interiors  must  have  seemed  bright  and  pleasant  to 
outsiders  in  the  chilly  dark,  for  to  the  inmates  of  a lighted 
room  looking  toward  the  black  oblongs  of  the  windows 
(for  shades  are  a superfluity  in  these  farmhouses)  there 
was  nothing  of  the  outer  world  but  darkness,  and  only 
a dim  image  of  themselves  to  stare  back  blankly  upon 
them.  Yet  the  night  was  not  dark ; the  moon  was  behind 
the  clouds,  and  the  dim  forests  and  the  white  fields  shone 
with  a ghostly  brightness. 

Yesterday  afternoon  late,  about  six  o'clock,  I started 
two  partridges  on  the  edge  of  a wood.  I entered  by  a 
dark  congregation  of  hemlocks;  and  with  beat  and 
ruffle,  and  a numbing  reverberation  in  the  air,  they  rose 
one  after  the  other  and  fluttered  away  among  the  snowy 
boughs. 

This  morning,  in  an  open  pasture,  my  horse's  hoofs 
were  balled  with  snow. 

There  are  now  whole  hillsides  of  vaporous  twigs, 
gray  in  the  sun  and  purple  in  the  shadow.  The  sun  seems 
to  bleach  out  this  pale  autumnal  world.  The  orchards 
are  brown,  leaf  and  trunk. 

It  cleared  during  the  day,  and  most  western  hillsides 
and  pastures  were  free  of  snow. 

I notice  that  the  bluebird's  call  more  nearly  ap- 
proaches the  note  of  domestic  fowls  than  any  wild  bird 
utterance,  unless  it  be  the  crowing  of  the  hoot  owl.  It 
is  very  like  the  cry  of  young  turkeys. 

Coming  up  the  hill  after  our  drive  to-day,  we  faced 


1 86 


STOWE  NOTES 


the  cold  north  wind.  The  Hogback  rose  above  us,  white 
and  unreal;  the  yellow  slope,  crowned  by  a little  house, 
its  surrounding  lilac  bushes,  and  a large  white  pine, 
looked  strange  against  this  glistening  frosty  ridge,  that 
gleamed  vividly  in  the  afternoon  sunlight  with  an  almost 
golden  sparkle,  and,  shining  between  the  level  pine 
boughs,  made  the  tree  and  the  dark  house  to  stand  out 
almost  like  silhouettes. 

The  sun  set,  and  the  ridge  turned  to  a delicate  metal- 
lic pink  broken  with  innumerable  blue  shadows.  Little 
rose-colored  clouds  were  low  over  the  glowing  woods 
northwest,  and  the  snowy  top  of  Sterling  was  rose- 
tinted. 

The  sun  sank  lower,  and  the  Hogback  lost  its  color, 
which,  concentrating  on  the  Sterling  pyramid,  grew 
brighter ; the  delicate  shoaling  clouds  were  touched  with 
pink  and  gold. 

Later,  only  a clear  pale  amber  space  in  the  southwest, 
and  in  it,  on  the  margin  and  the  melting  blue,  the  even- 
ing star  shone,  scintillating  frostily.  The  dusky  and 
shrunken  clouds,  low  over  Mansfield,  were  shredded 
with  dull  reddish  streaks. 

In  the  woods  the  ferns  are  faded  and  shrunk  away  to 
grayish  skeletons  thin  as  shadows,  and  show  like  a yel- 
low dust  among  the  dead  leaves. 

The  lilacs  around  houses  are  still  in  leaf,  but  from  a 
deep  blue-green  they  have  faded  to  a brighter  if  more 
yellowish  color. 

Brown  ferns  in  the  pastures,  soft  and  feathery,  more 
interesting  than  when  green.  Trees,  wind-shaken,  grow 


...  8 n e k • 

\ f-r 

Nov  v yu r 


VERMONT 


187 


thin  and  leafless  almost  as  you  gaze.  They  toss  their 
arms  and  dance,  like  reckless  prodigals  shaking  their 
thinning  rags.  Their  glory  has  departed,  the  glory  of 
gold  and  crimson,  and  soon  they  will  stand  cold  and 
naked,  all  the  deciduous  company— straight  lindens, 
rugged  maples,  and  the  soft-skinned  beeches. 

Though  the  night  had  every  promise  of  a clear  to- 
morrow, yet  on  waking  I found  the  sky  overcast.  The 
wind  had  risen  in  the  night;  I heard  it  moaning  at  an 
early  hour  when  it  was  still  dark.  It  turned  out  to  be  a 
southwest  wind,  and  brought  a beautiful  sky  crossed 
with  cirro-stratus  clouds.  Thin  bluish  veils  lay  behind 
the  heavier  masses,  and  detached  purplish  clouds  swam 
in  the  milky  spaces,  and  among  all  shone  little  lakes  of 
blue  ovals  and  of  broken  margin. 

The  mountain  tops  have  a peculiar  appearance.  The 
strong  west  wind  of  yesterday  cleared  the  ridges  of  the 
snow  that  rests  on  the  eastern  slope  up  to  the  line  of 
wind-darkened  spruces,  so  that  the  mountains,  except 
Mansfield,  where  the  snow  lies  flat  upon  the  bare  rock, 
seem  to  be  darkly  outlined. 

The  snow,  “flaw-blown,”  comes  over  the  valley  from 
the  Veiled  Countenance  like  smoke.  This  morning  there 
was  a strong  wind,  hollow,  thunderous.  Now  it  is  rising 
again,  but  earlier  in  the  afternoon  it  died  down  and  blew 
fitfully.  Last  night  was  a witches’  meeting,  a whirling 
dark  vociferous  night — the  Stygian  cave,  full  of  lament- 
ing voices. 

In  the  afternoon  in  the  south  wood  there  was  the 


1 88 


STOWE  NOTES 


nutty  odor  of  the  fallen  leaves.  The  wind  searched  the 
most  secret  places.  The  wood  was  bare  and  open,  the 
breaking  sky  gleamed  through  the  naked  boughs. 

They  have  cut  down  the  larger  trees  and  the  wind  has 
felled  some;  hemlocks  and  spruces,  many,  stripped  of 
their  bark  and  sawed  into  lengths,  lie  in  the  underbrush. 

Down  in  an  unused  road,  a swampy  track  where 
grew  hickories  and  red  maples,  and  where  showed  the 
soft  dull  green  of  little  hemlocks.  Down  in  the  valley  and 
along  the  Sterling  slope  lay  long  stretches  of  sunlight; 
the  full  river  glistened. 

The  near  trees  stood  dark  against  these  pale  pastures 
and  dusky  woods.  The  hills  northward  were  dark  blue, 
southward  gray  with  snow;  they  seemed  almost  to  melt 
into  the  dark  and  massive  clouds  that  lay  along  their 
ridges.  A faint,  slightly  rosy  light  at  sunset. 

This  afternoon  in  the  swampy  hollow  the  wind  passed 
with  a deep  and  melancholy  sigh  among  the  nodding 
spruces. 


FRAGMENTS 


March. 

Each  day  has  an  individual  beauty  that  convinces 
wholly;  all  differ,  but  each  is  perfect. 

The  sky  was  clear  but  for  one  fragment  of  cloud  over 
Mansfield  mountain.  A broad  rosy  flush  overspread  the 
country,  and  in  the  sky  behind  the  mountain  tops  north- 
westward a cold  and  metallic  glimmer  of  the  same  color 
was  evident,  intensified  on  the  horizon.  The  air  very 
chill  and  fresh. 

The  charm  of  spring  seems  to  me  to  lie  in  the  mar- 
vellous delicacy  of  detail — the  perfection  of  every  flower, 
leaf,  and  blade  of  grass,  the  wonderful  intricacy  of  the 
tree’s  anatomy  made  interesting  by  the  budding  life  of 
the  season. 

The  upland  (plateau)  farms— the  beauty  of  fields: 
in  them  rather  than  in  the  wood,  unless  it  be  a wooded 
bit  in  the  corner  of  a pasture,  lies  to  me  the  principal 
beauty  of  the  country. 

As  I passed  through  a sugar-wood  in  the  still  and 
quiet  afternoon,  the  maples  had  a knowing  air  as  of  half- 
tamed  creatures  conscious  of  a power  unshared  by  the 
wilder  spirits  of  their  kind — the  wondering  beeches, 

189 


190 


STOWE  NOTES 


birches,  ashes,  and  elms— and  seemed  aware  of  the 
friendly  office  they  perform,  and  to  acquiesce,  as  well 
they  may,  since  accident  in  the  blood  of  them  insures  a 
certain  protection,  if  not  a care.  The  axe  strikes  thrice 
at  their  neighbors  where  once  it  injures  them— the  only 
trees  held  in  any  degree  sacred  in  America. 

Home  by  the  new  road.  Before  entering  the  wood 
on  the  south,  a growth  of  yellow  birches  of  various  ages 
skirts  the  road  for  about  an  eighth  of  a mile.  They  grow 
on  a steep  bank,  and  the  glistening  gold  of  the  trunks 
and  larger  boughs  is  shown  against  the  pale  reddish 
ground  of  dead  leaves,  and  against  lilac  patches  of  snow. 
Bushes  of  young  hemlock  grow  close  to  the  road,  and  at 
this  time  and  in  this  light  shine  of  a most  lively  green. 
The  surface  of  the  drifts,  rippled  with  blue  and  lilac 
shadows,  contrasts  delicately  with  the  vivid  tint. 

At  about  six  o’clock  I went  out  to  the  crown  of  the 
little  pasture,  where  a fire  of  brush  had  been  kindled.  It 
had  smouldered  to  the  coals,  but  on  my  raking  together 
the  charred  ends,  rekindled  rapidly,  and  soon  a bright 
blaze  fluttered  on  the  hill. 

The  weather  had  changed;  the  sun  sank  in  a haze 
with  but  little  color;  a film  of  vapor  overspread  the 
sky.  Deprived  of  the  warm  light  and  under  so  dead 
a sky,  the  mountains  took  on  a solemn  and  brooding 
aspect. 

The  woods  looked  thick  and  misty;  from  their  direc- 
tion came  the  notes  of  the  song  sparrow.  The  moon  was 
just  risen,  pale  but  nearly  full,  the  rays  spread  on  the 
mist  in  the  form  of  a cross.  Out  of  the  east,  as  if 


FRAGMENTS 


191 

breathed  from  her  cold  surface,  a chilly  wind  came 
steadily,  making  a stir  and  murmur  in  the  evergreens, 
between  which  the  fire  glowed. 

On  the  south,  a black  spruce;  on  the  north,  a little 
feathery  hemlock;  eastward,  between  me  and  the  moon, 
twigs  of  the  wild  apple  trees. 

There  was  a pleasant  mingling  of  the  voices  of  fir 
and  fire,  strangely  alike  and  subtly  different — the  soft 
roar  of  the  flames,  and  the  colder,  more  abrupt,  and  thin- 
ner voices  of  the  trees ; the  fire  soothing  yet  sinister,  the 
trees  thrilling  yet  kind. 

Indeed,  the  fire,  so  seeming  dead,  laid  hold  with  a 
hungry  zest  of  the  fragments  I gathered;  and  now,  on 
the  windy  side  from  which  the  flame  is  driven,  the  ash- 
coated  coals  dimple  and  seem  to  waver,  whitening  and 
glowing  red — the  play  and  the  colors  of  a withheld  quiet 
rage. 

So  marked  was  the  appearance  of  a cross  in  the 
moon’s  halo,  that  to  see  it  more  clearly,  beyond  the  inter- 
position of  the  apple  tree  branches,  I descended  the  little 
hill,  passed  through  the  hedge  of  cherry  and  young 
hard-wood  trees  on  the  edge  of  the  plowed  acre,  and 
looked  eastward.  The  purple  brown  of  the  plowing 
stretched  from  my  feet  beyond  a whitish  stretch  of  faded 
grass;  then  the  broken  line  of  a pasture,  gray  rock, 
stunted  evergreens,  and  the  reddish  brown  ridges  of  fern 
brakes;  beyond  that  a sugar-wood,  cloudy  reddish  pur- 
ple, and  finally  the  mountain-side,  streaked  with  the 
white  glimmer  of  snow  among  the  tree  trunks. 

Returning,  at  the  base  of  the  incline  I could  see  the 
wavering  flames  over  the  furrow  of  the  pasture,  but  no 


192 


STOWE  NOTES 


other  evidence  of  the  fire,  nor  indeed  of  smoke,  for  the 
mistiness  of  the  air  tended  to  disguise  it,  and  it  was  car- 
ried low  by  the  level  wind.  There  only,  like  a magical 
display,  on  the  apex  of  the  little  hill  danced  these  fiery 
tongues. 

To-day  the  wind  of  March,  big  and  blustering.  The 
dun  and  purple  country,  spotted  with  glittering  drifts, 
rolls  away  to  the  blue  wall  of  spruce-forested  mountains. 
Heavy  clouds  overtop  them,  and  the  meeting  of  the 
cloud-shadow  and  mountain-side  is  a purple  hollow,  a 
violet  cave,  a band  of  deep  and  vivid  color. 

In  the  wood  the  trees  sway  and  roar.  Volumes  of 
fragrant  steam  burst  from  the  windows  of  the  sugar- 
house.  The  atmosphere  inside  has  a mild  yet  heavy 
sweetness,  the  smell  of  the  boiling  maple  sap,  as  peculiar 
as  the  flavor,  as  delectable,  as  bland.  It  is  as  individual 
a sweet  as  honey,  for  there  lurks  in  both  a quality  like  a 
reminiscence  of  their  sources;  its  flavor  on  the  tongue 
conveys  more  than  a mere  sense  of  sweetness — it  is  a 
hint  of  saccharine  secrets  known  to  the  bee,  the  fly,  and 
such  ephemeral  creatures — too  slight  for  our  percep- 
tion, too  fine  for  our  obtaining,  too  subtle  for  our  blunt 
powers  of  differentiation,  and  at  last  ours  only  by  craft 
and  violence,  the  exercise  of  ignoble  forces.  The  maple 
is  perhaps  the  more  delicate  sweet  of  the  two ; it  has  not 
the  cloying  and  bitter  after-taste  of  honey. 

A furnace  of  brick  and  stone  stands  in  the  centre  of 
the  sugar-house.  The  sap  hisses  and  surges  in  the  pan, 
curling  in  a tawny  wave  from  the  seams;  at  the  upper 
end  a heater  is  set.  The  steam  rolls  and  eddies  around 


FRAGMENTS 


193 


the  small  building,  and  bursts  wildly  from  the  open  win- 
dows, pursued  by  gusts  of  wind. 

It  was  growing  toward  sunset ; sombre  orange  tints 
showed  in  the  clouds.  John  threw  open  the  door  and 
drew  in  an  armful  of  fagots.  He  unhooked  the  damper 
of  sheet  iron  (for  door  the  furnace  had  none),  and,  as 
he  thrust  in  the  wood,  the  red  firelight  glowed  on  his  face 
and  as  much  of  his  figure  as  was  visible.  Behind  his 
head  the  low-hanging  boughs  (for  the  sugar-house 
stands  on  the  very  edge  of  the  wood)  swayed  in  the 
wind;  pale  leaves  fluttered  up  against  the  deep  purple 
clouds  that  overspread  the  sky.  Beyond  was  the  rim  of 
the  meadow,  half  bleached  grass,  half  a dead  white  drift, 
and  beyond  that,  again,  the  far-away  country  northward, 
the  sapphire  distance. 

The  wind  roared,  the  sparks  danced  around  the  little 
hut,  and,  the  door  being  closed,  the  picture  lost  the 
strange  background— its  leap  into  the  north  twenty 
miles  as  the  bird  flies.  In  all  that  region  and  throughout 
the  range  of  the  sugar  maple,  on  every  square  of  two 
hundred  acres  or  so  a similar  scene  is  being  enacted,  on 
a large  or  a small  scale— from  the  double  evaporators 
that  boil  the  sap  of  fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand  trees, 
through  varying  degrees  in  the  size  and  capacity  of  pans, 
even  to  the  humble  potash  kettle  of  the  old  order  of 
things. 

The  wind  lessened  toward  evening;  for  an  hour  be- 
tween six  and  seven  it  was  still. 

The  moon  rode  clear  when  about  one  third  of  the 
way  across  the  sky.  A night  like  faded  daylight,  like 
a landscape  darkened  by  time  or  neglect — so  pale  the 


194 


STOWE  NOTES 


country,  and  the  clouds,  clustering  over  the  mountains, 
white  and  fleecy. 

Soon  the  wind  recommenced,  blustered  and  trampled. 
The  air  was  cold ; I could  see  the  stars  wink  in  the  rifts 
on  the  horizon. 

So  on  into  the  pasture  and  to  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
where  the  boughs  swayed  and  rustled  in  the  wind  and  the 
leaves  danced  in  the  pale  moonlight,  for  there  was  a net 
of  clouds  over  the  sky,  and  the  full  moon  looked  small  and 
faint,  and  a vast  rainbow  circled  like  a wheel  about  her. 

I called,  but  there  was  only  the  murmuring  whisper 
and  flutter  of  the  leaves.  Again  I call,  and  a low  whinny 
answers;  so  soft  the  turf  that  I do  not  hear  the  hollow 
beat  of  hoof  until  I see  the  mare  close  upon  me,  large 
against  the  moonlight.  Her  head  is  raised,  her  eyes 
affrayed  with  doubtful  tremor  and  wonder,  her  nostrils 
dilated,  her  ears  pricked  forward,  and,  clearly  outlined 
on  the  sky,  she  comes  at  a fast  swinging  walk,  her  mane 
fanned  out  on  the  wind.  The  colt  leaps  and  ambles  close 
at  her  side.  The  sound  of  my  voice  speaking  her  name 
reassures  her ; she  pauses  for  an  instant,  arches  her  head, 
and  lightly  feels  the  palm  of  my  hand  with  her  lips ; then, 
resuming  her  walk,  she  passes  swiftly  by,  the  colt  still 
close  at  her  flank,  and  is  lost  to  sight  in  the  uncertain 
moonlight — though  the  ear  may  follow  her  by  an  em- 
phatic sneeze  or  the  sound  of  cropping. 

July- 

From  the  dark  swamp  came  the  devil  music  of  the 
veery,  whining,  thrilling,  the  bitter-sweet  of  sound, 


FRAGMENTS 


195 


harsh  and  dulcet— the  truant  dryad  of  that  shadowy 
grove. 

August. 

The  sunset  glowed  and  died,  fading  out  and  growing 
gray  and  cold  like  a dying  coal.  The  mountains  seemed 
removed  in  space  and  sympathy;  they  seemed  to  brood, 
and  their  thoughts  were  foreign  to  the  hopes  and  fears 
of  animate  Nature. 

Summit  of  Mount  Mansfield.  Silence  supreme. 
Faint  distant  sound  of  wind  in  the  trees,  none  to  be  seen 
moving.  Sounds  as  clear  as  rock  shadows. 

Day  hot.  Drove  towards  Smugglers’  Notch,  but 
turned  eastward  to  what  is  called  the  Platform.  The 
Mountain  valley  soft  and  hazy.  This  latter  part  of 
August  a time  for  gathering  grain— this  is  a peculiar 
charm.  Up,  up  a long  hill  wooded  on  either  side— young 
birch,  some  beeches  and  young  maples.  On  the  road, 
higher,  looking  across  to  Mansfield,  the  atmospheric  con- 
ditions almost  perfect— perfect  for  the  moment.  A hazy 
light;  the  excessive  altitudes  of  the  Mountain  faint — a 
great  shadow  looming  on  the  evening  sky,  but,  lower,  the 
southeastern  spur  distinctly  seen.  The  roof  of  a house 
catching  the  light;  a yellow  marking  of  the  wheat-field 
boundaries.  Some  trees  tinged  with  an  especially  marked 
individuality,  and,  indeed,  a general  feeling  of  all  trees. 

Lower  lay  the  valley  with  the  sawmill,  and,  like  a wall 
on  the  southwest,  the  straight  ridge  of  the  Nebraska 
mountains.  A house  in  a clearing,  high,  remote— an 
eye,  a watch  upon  the  mountain  solitudes.  In  the  im- 


STOWE  NOTES 


196 

mediate  foreground  a wheat-field,  in  which  a man  and 
(presumably)  his  two  sons  are  at  work.  The  wheat  is 
in  sheaves  mostly ; a small  ripening  spot  uncut.  As  we 
passed,  they  left  work  and  came  over  into  the  road,  the 
gleaming  scythe  on  the  man’s  shoulder,  the  boys  hanging 
on  his  steps. 

The  view  from  the  knoll  which  we  ascended — a wide 
and  comprehensive  gaze  about  the  whole  horizon.  The 
Hogback  mountains  to  the  southeast,  and  successive  blue 
hills  and  vacancies  of  hidden  valleys  between.  Tall 
woods  to  the  northeast,  and,  over  all,  an  added  shade  of 
mystery,  the  sun  having  virtually  set  in  the  haze.  A red 
light  behind  Mansfield,  and  little  silver  fragments,  high 
above,  tinged  brilliantly — light  and  feathery  these.  In 
the  west  a little  southward,  ill-defined  and  heavily  shad- 
owed, cloud  shapes  rising  on  the  twilight. 

Over  the  Platform  drive,  a plunge  into  the  darkening 
woods.  The  light  through  the  leaves — at  the  foot  of  a 
long  hill,  looking  upward,  the  road  narrowing  toward 
the  apex,  reaching  between  two  trees  that  stand  soft  and 
feathery  in  the  twilight  air.  They,  as  all  objects  at  the 
distance  now,  seem  to  be  beheld  through  some  denser 
medium;  the  outlines  are  indistinct,  yet  the  color  is  en- 
hanced at  the  expense  of  an  arbitrary  exactness  of  form — 
or  feature  rather  than  form.  A medium  this,  pure  and 
liquid,  like  a refinement  of  the  purest  aqueous  distilla- 
tion— the  atmosphere  of  Art  and  Dreamland. 

Turning  into  a grass-grown  road  and  passing  a 
barred  gate,  we  came  into  a perfect  wild.  A desolate 
barren  sheep-pasture  on  the  one  hand,  topped  by  the  dis- 
tant and  faint  outlines  of  the  Hogback  mountains ; before 


FRAGMENTS 


197 


us,  to  the  south,  a wood  of  maples ; westward,  the  great 
profile,  towered  by  those  dark  fantastic  cloud-shadows 
defined  on  a dying  glow  of  daylight.  On  in  the  deep 
cart-tracks,  into  the  shadow  of  the  wood.  Between  the 
branches,  faint,  far,  mysterious,  that  pale  glimmering 
shone  indistinctly.  The  trees  reared  great  trunks  high 
above  us — forest  trees.  The  incline  was  downward  still, 
and  the  flat  lay  of  leaves  from  the  young  boughs  of  sap- 
ling beeches  was  observable  on  our  way,  almost  in  our 
faces.  Through  a quiet  farm-yard,  disturbing  a peace- 
able gathering  of  cows,  and  still  down  again  into  deeper 
shadow.  So,  out  into  the  valley  mists,  and  home. 

Looking  up  at  the  night-gathering  sky,  between  the 
branches  of  trees,  a star,  perhaps,  twinkling  on  one’s  gaze 
in  a mysterious  manner,  as  if  one’s  contemplation  had 
power  to  summon  that  returning  glimmer  out  of  the  sky. 

December. 

Thin  clouds  over  the  face  of  the  new  moon:  like  a 
changing  expression,  they  pass  over  it  without  obscuring 
its  light,  but,  being  passed,  it  seems  to  smile. 

Looking  at  Hogback,  deserted  by  the  afterglow — the 
solemnity  of  the  mountains  after  sunset.  The  glimmer 
of  icy  ridge  divided  from  the  pale  green  sky  by  a line  of 
hair-like  delicacy,  in  value  occasionally  identical,  only  the 
faint  definition  of  color  remains— below,  pale  lilac; 
above,  pale  green. 

[ Sky]  yellow,  changing  to  clear  metallic  pink— cold  and 
colder — curious  tinge!  Mountains  clearly  outlined,  con- 


198 


STOWE  NOTES 


struction  defined,  snow  marking  crevices  and  gorges — 
bringing  the  bulk  nearer  and  throwing  summit  into 
remote  regions  of  sunset;  differing  in  this  so  much 
from  mysteries  of  autumn  and  summer  also— wherein  a 
dead  blue  wall. 

Every  man  who  owns  horses,  unless  brutishness  over- 
whelms him — for  not  the  worst  among  mortals  is  denied 
absolute  dominion  of  these  sensitive  creatures — almost 
every  owner,  then,  inflates  his  own  impression  of  his 
horse's  powers  in  the  manner  of  the  Dauphin's  vaunting 
before  the  battle  of  Agincourt:  he  sees  his  horse  in  a 
slight  haze  of  poetic  self-sufficiency.  The  flattery  is 
almost  personal,  so  intimate  is  the  connection  in  vanity 
between  horse  and  rider,  or  horse  and  driver,  though  this 
is  but  a modern  and  local  instance. 

The  Peruvians  thought  De  Soto  and  the  mounted 
Spaniards  one  with  their  horses. 

In  a shapeless  hat  and  a parti-colored  coat,  of  which 
the  original  black  has  faded  to  harmonious  greens  and 
yellows,  frayed  at  the  seams,  ragged  at  the  cuffs,  I can 
lay  claim  to  as  little  personal  vanity  in  my  appearance  as 
a man  may.  I can  endure  to  ride  in  a mud-coated  cart ; 
the  harness  even  may  be  poor  and  dirty;  but  my  mare's 
coat  must  shine  like  satin — a straw  clinging  in  mane  or 
tail  would  become  a reproach  and  burden  on  the  spirit. 
Vanity  is  playing  see-saw  on  the  dashboard  to  such  a 
degree  as  converts  those  instances  of  humility  into  a 
source  of  pride  by  very  contrast,  and  I find  myself  happy 
to  be  a foil  to  my  horse,  so  subtle  is  this  reciprocity. 

A speech  of  Tilly,  the  veteran  of  the  Thirty  Years' 


FRAGMENTS 


199 


War,  is  recorded,  that  a bright  polished  weapon  is  best 
set  off  by  a ragged  coat. 

The  little  canary  had  a fit  yesterday.  Suddenly  it 
fell  from  its  perch  and  lay  upon  its  back  in  the  centre  of 
the  cage,  its  wings  partially  extended,  its  tail  turned  in 
and  up  at  a slight  angle,  and  its  claws  drawn  to  the  side 
and  closed — in  a word,  the  attitude  of  a dead  bird.  Yet 
its  eyes  winked  brightly,  though  I fancied  they  appeared 
darker  and  wore  an  expression  of  suffering.  It  did  not 
suggest  the  effects  of  a physical  ailment,  but  the  bird 
seemed  like  some  creature  spent  with  emotion. 

There  is  something  awful  in  the  presence  of  a dead 
wild  animal.  I remember  the  young  fox  just  killed  and 
still  warm  that  H.  brought  to  show  me.  There  was  no 
blood  upon  it;  I fancy  it  had  been  strangled.  The  eyes 
were  partly  opened,  the  pupil  was  widely  expanded  and 
showed  dark  and  suffused.  The  expression  was  awfully 
intelligent,  at  once  sly  and  pathetic.  It  produced  in  the 
observer  a singular  suspicion  of  death  counterfeited. 
One  expected  some  swift  change  in  the  eye,  some  sudden 
movement  toward  escape;  but  still  it  lay  unstirred,  its 
brush  drooping,  its  nimble  feet  passively  extended,  and 
with  the  mocking  gleam  in  its  cunning  eye. 

Of  the  chicken  hawk  that  H.  shot  last  May— its  stern 
and  unrepentant  glance,  the  anger  of  its  eye,  unquenched 
by  death,  staring  a mute  but  bitter  protest  against  men’s 
tyranny. 

It  is  almost  a year  since  there  hung  in  my  stable  the 
skin  of  a raccoon.  It  was  a fine  specimen,  and  perfect 


200 


STOWE  NOTES 


but  that  it  lacked  one  fore  foot,  which,  however,  did  not 
injure  the  value  of  the  fur.  The  slayer,  who  had  spent 
his  Sunday  wandering  in  the  woods  with  expectations 
raised  nothing  above  partridge  or  rabbit,  was  not  a little 
proud  of  his  achievement ; and  a wave  of  something  like 
envy  disturbed  the  stolid  satisfaction  with  which  less 
fortunate  sportsmen  regarded  the  trophy,  for  the  rac- 
coon is  no  longer  common  in  this  country. 

To  me  the  bloody  pelt  possessed  a strong  and  painful 
interest,  and  the  missing  foot  told  a story  of  wrong  and 
tyranny,  with  force  and  eloquence  beyond  what  pen  can 
set  on  paper  and  my  faltering  efforts  ever  hope  to 
shadow. 

The  raccoon  was  found  asleep  in  the  cleft  of  a hol- 
low tree,  on  a bed  of  leaves.  The  slayer  approached 
softly,  and  took  a sure  and  close  aim  at  the  eye,  in  order 
not  to  mar  the  pelt.  It  appeared  strange,  the  cunning 
creature,  that  he  should  have  chosen  this  tree  with  the 
open  cleft,  for  the  entrance  to  the  raccoon’s  hole  is 
usually  placed  high  enough  to  avoid  the  allied  dangers 
that  walk  on  two  or  run  on  four  feet.  But  the  clawless 
stump  threw  light  on  the  wonder : with  but  three  feet,  he 
was  no  longer  able  to  climb  his  tree,  so  made  his  bed  at 
its  foot,  and  fell  the  easier  prey,  and  the  sportsman  had  in 
this  instance  to  acknowledge  the  good  offices  of  the  trap. 

Of  a frosty  November  night  one  sees  the  glow  in  the 
windows  of  the  farmhouse  that  speaks  of  an  atmosphere 
within,  a tranquil  social  time,  a gathering  for  some  ease 
after  the  strain  of  the  day’s  work,  for  shelter,  comfort, 
repose.  And  yet  the  same  cold  moonlight  that  glimmers 


FRAGMENTS 


201 


on  the  roof  sees  a dark  something  stir  in  the  close  shrubs 
and  grasses  of  the  swamp,  something  that  seems  to  imply 
an  abortive  activity,  to  writhe,  but  without  progress. 

It  is  the  struggle  between  the  insensate  trap  and  the 
mink,  fox,  or  raccoon  on  whose  flesh  its  fangs  are  set. 
Either  exhaustion  follows,  and  subsequent  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  trapper — who  will  visit  the  spot  at  dawn,  or 
two  or  three  days  hence — or  an  escape  by  means  com- 
pared with  which  the  sacrifice  of  Scaevola’s  right  hand 
was  a slight  essay  of  stoicism.  Then,  in  a dreadfully 
imposed  silence,  the  captive  creature  with  its  sharp  teeth 
desperately  rends  its  own  flesh,  and  even  gnaws  and 
crushes  its  own  bones— and  is  free. 

Such  tragedies  transpire  in  the  darkness  of  wood 
and  swamp,  unrecorded,  unheeded.  Soevola  won  the 
approbation  of  all  succeeding  time  that  he  suffered  the 
deprivation  of  his  hand  as  a pledge  of  fidelity  to  his  prin- 
ciples ; but  I never  heard  it  recorded  as  a heroism  in  mink 
or  raccoon  that  with  his  own  teeth  he  severed  flesh  and 
sinew  because  he  loved  freedom  and  his  natural  rights. 
Indeed,  the  scientific  have  averred  that  in  such  cases  of 
voluntary  dismemberment  the  suffering  is  slight. 

Of  those  who  speak  thus  lightly  of  pain  and  wrong, 
soothing  the  disturbed  and  doubting  conscience  and  giv- 
ing countenance  to  the  evil,  . . . they  are  paid  in  such 
coin  as  those  thirty  pieces,  of  which  a man’s  strength 
could  not  endure  the  weight,  heavy  with  innocent  blood. 

I wonder,  and  I fail  to  see,  by  what  right  man  im- 
poses so  much  misery  upon  his  fellow  creatures.  Is  it 


202 


STOWE  NOTES 


not  a strange  arrogance,  a conviction  that  the  ability  and 
power  to  do  wrong  justify  the  doing? 

It  is  held  that  all  this  suffering  and  desolation  is  a 
necessary  part  of  the  march  of  civilization ; but  I find  the 
glib  expounders  and  patrons  of  this  civilization  some- 
thing too  rank— it  is  the  weed  and  not  the  flower  that 
flourishes  best  in  the  soil  of  to-day.  For  my  part,  I think 
it  is  no  such  great  matter,  and  I indeed  could  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  condemn  it  utterly,  if  it  destroys  the  inno- 
cent and  holds  no  life  sacred  save  that  which  stirs  under 
its  own  skin.  If  civilization  does  not  progress  beyond 
this,  it  is  worse  than  nothing. 

This  is  a subject  that  is  in  the  mouths  of  many,  and 
yet  little  has  been  written  upon  it,  however  well  these 
cultivators  of  thought  may  have  progressed  with  it : for 
those  who  would  urge  against  it  shrink  in  diffidence,  sus- 
pecting a want  of  logic  in  their  position.  But  what  is 
genuinely  and  deeply  felt  is  alone  worthy  of  expression, 
and  let  this,  and  a hope  that  I may  not  be  so  far  illogical 
as  to  hurt  the  cause  of  those  dumb  kinsfolk  I would  fain 
aid,  be  my  encouragement  and  my  excuse. 

It  seems  as  if  all  this  misery  could  not  die,  as  if  some 
power  now  perchance  uncreated,  biding  its  time,  still 
heard  and  noted ; and  to  the  imaginative  mind  dwelling 
on  such  thoughts,  the  great  natural  sounds,  the  tones  of 
those  forces  that,  aroused,  are  inimical  to  man,  ever  in 
the  wailing  and  gusty  throat  of  the  wind  speak  with  an 
angry  sorrow  for  the  mute  and  unheeded  sufferers : for 
surely  they  sympathize  with  the  simple  and  the  suffering, 
and  not  with  the  usurper,  treasuring  up  the  wrong  the 


FRAGMENTS 


203 


more  that  its  note  of  suffering  was  so  small,  remember- 
ing those  brief  and  bitter  cries. 

The  misery  that  human  pride  causes ! If  the  horse 
might  choose,  would  he  not  change  places  with  the  hum- 
ble sheep,  the  meek  sheep,  the  ox?  Perhaps  not;  perhaps 
he  values  that  spirit,  that  heart  of  fire,  that  inspiration, 
to  be  willing  to  accept  the  suffering  it  entails.  The  hand 
of  man  is  heavy  on  all  alike.  Who  does  not  know  the 
strained  and  anxious  expression  of  the  deep  and  beauti- 
ful eye  of  the  overwrought  ox,  the  sole  symptom  and 
protest  against  his  bitter  usage— that  eye  of  calm  and 
peaceful  beauty,  of  golden  lights  and  purple  shades,  of 
the  quality  of  a mountain  brook,  its  sky  reflections  and 
its  warm  shallows  ? Whosoever  quenches  the  mild  light 
of  that  eye  and  clouds  it  with  the  dry  and  glassy  stare  of 
a mute  misery — what  shall  be  said  of  him?  It  were  bet- 
ter that  a millstone  were  hung  about  his  neck  and  he 
were  cast  into  the  sea. 

All  wrong  is  essentially  the  same,  though  differen- 
tiated so  far  as  to  be  known  under  different  names ; but 
above  all  among  these  manifold  forms  of  wickedness 
God  hates  cruelty. 

It  was  not  of  man  alone  that  the  pitiful  Christ  spoke 
that  solemn  judgment:  “Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it 
unto  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto 
me.”  Responsibility  does  not  end  where  humanity  ends, 
but  extends  even  to  “the  meanest  thing  that  feels/' 


204 


STOWE  NOTES 


What  is  pity?  It  is  the  realization  of  another's  sor- 
row, the  most  unselfish  of  the  emotions,  for  it  awakes  the 
keenest  pain  on  another's  account;  whereas  the  other 
emotions,  if  impersonal,  awake  pleasure,  satisfaction, 
friendship,  and  love— a response  pleasing.  It  is  less  per- 
sonal, less  selfish,  the  most  divine,  as  being  a relation 
beyond  the  individual — a wide  sympathy.  It  is  partly 
an  impatience  of  wrong  and  suffering,  partly  the  realiza- 
tion of  it. 

What  did  Christ,  what  did  Joan  of  Arc  feel  ? Love 
and  pity ; but  in  both  cases  was  it  not  pity  that  prompted 
action?  “I  have  a great  pity  for  the  fair  realm  of 
France." 

Wherein  is  the  human  heart  and  mind  a superior 
power?  To  endure  with  the  better  courage  pain  and 
suffering. 

What  a chasm  between  the  life  of  the  poor  or  of  the 
earnest  and  that  of  the  pleasure-seekers — the  large  class 
of  slightly  cultured,  pleasure-loving  people  whose  culture 
goes  to  nothing  beyond  the  novel,  whose  pleasure  is  of 
all  that  appeals  not  too  forcibly  to  the  senses — those  who 
live  in  an  atmosphere  of  flutter  susceptibility;  those 
whom  toil  or  care  has  not  hardened  to  make  the  recog- 
nition of  beauty  perfunctory;  those  who  have  never  felt 
the  thorny  point  of  bare  distress.  They  have  no  concep- 
tion of  a real  tragedy  of  the  soul ; they  are  happy.  But 
it  is  a poor,  selfish,  and  narrow  form ; still,  'tis  the  mod- 
ern tendency,  the  end  of  this  civilization. 

They  dance,  dine,  seek  out  their  amusements  in  a 


FRAGMENTS 


205 


direction  between  the  good  and  the  bad:  for  they  must 
not  feel  the  tightening  of  either  extreme.  All  flows 
calmly,  smoothly — “sleek-headed  men  and  such  as  sleep 
o’  nights/' 

They  know  nothing  of  the  bitterness  of  a struggle, 
the  poor  man's  for  life,  or  the  earnest  man's  for  truth. 
They  are  like  inhabitants  of  different  planets. 

One  may  endure  to  accept  the  devoted  care  of  an- 
other, if  the  least  hope  of  repayment  lives  to  light  the 
future — a repayment  not  so  much  in  regard  to  the  indi- 
vidual, but  in  respect  to  a larger  requital,  some  accom- 
plishment worthy  of  pains  and  of  waiting.  But  if  both 
the  one  and  the  other  hope  be  dead — of  repayment  in 
kind  and  the  repayment  of  a good  work— then  the  object 
of  living  ceases.  The  life  of  the  aided  is  meaningless  to 
himself,  useless  to  the  world.  . . . There's  a great  pos- 
sibility for  all  alike  in  the  power  of  dying  bravely. 

Courage:  for  instance,  it  must  have  been  a terrible 
experience  on  Round  Top  at  Gettysburg  when  Pickett's 
veterans  marched  through  death  and  slaughter  to  the 
mouths  of  the  Federal  guns — more  terrible  for  the  Fed- 
erals  than  for  their  intrepid  opponents.  At  that  moment 
the  souls  of  the  Union  men  must  have  needed  some 
loftier  impulse  than  the  fierce  courage  of  battle  to  sustain 
their  cruel  purpose.  Nothing  but  implicit  and  unques- 
tioning trust  in  the  rectitude  of  their  cause  could  have 
nerved  those  men  to  hurl  their  murderous  fire  against 
the  defenseless  breasts  of  the  advancing  column. 


206 


STOWE  NOTES 


Life  seems  the  more  sacred  in  proportion  to  its  fra- 
gility and  brevity:  the  more  ethereal  the  essence,  the 
more  precious.  It  seems  as  if  that  little  minute  should 
sparkle  with  delight : to  spend  that  little  sadly  were  too 
long. 

What  is  a realist  ? One  who  cannot  see  further  into 
the  truth  than  to  confound  the  accidental  with  the  essen- 
tial. Truth  is  beauty,  and  the  artist  who  is  capable  of 
recording  those  elements  of  essential  truth  and  omitting 
the  elements  of  accident  achieves  the  beautiful. 

Query:  What  is  accident,  and  what  essential  truth? 
How  to  be  known,  and  how  distinguished,  the  one  from 
the  other  ? By  innate  perception,  by  observation,  and  a 
deep  familiarity  with  the  subject  treated— a familiarity 
gained  by  living  under  the  conditions  that  allow  of  know- 
ing, not  by  second-hand  or  forced  acquaintance.  An 
artist  must  therefore  live  the  life  he  records.  Those  that 
deal  with  subjects  classical,  imaginative,  dramatic,  must 
appeal  to  the  inner  senses;  but  what  so  well  stimulates 
that  power,  guides  and  aids  it,  as  the  living  of  a fixed 
and  earnest  life? 

. . . Here  is  much  the  same  idea  as  in  Stevenson’s 
passage:  "The  young  demand  happiness  as  a right;  the 
old  humbly  ask  to  be  spared  intolerable  pain.”*  So  the 
young,  in  the  fresh  powers  of  untried  hearts,  are  ven- 
turesome to  tempt  the  pains  and  pangs  of  fiery  emotions, 
which  the  old  shrink  from,  either  having  suffered  too 

* “Age  asks  with  timidity  to  be  spared  intolerable  pain;  youth,  taking  fortune 
by  the  beard,  demands  joy  like  a right.” — The  Dynamiter. 


FRAGMENTS 


207 


keenly,  with  old  wounds  of  heart  or  conscience  to  cover, 
or  from  weariness  of  spirit. 


Introduction  to  an  Unfinished  Story, 
“Hollywood” 

“Death  pays  all  debts”  is  an  affirmation;  it  has  the 
currency  of  such  sayings,  an  unscanned  acceptance,  and 
not  to  admit  it  is  to  deny  the  powers  of  heredity  and 
example.  Yet,  like  all  popular  aphorisms,  it  contains 
truth,  and  is  not  unallowed  of  poetic  justice,  for  the 
human  heart  inclines  to  speak  for  the  dead,  who  lie  at  a 
silent  disadvantage.  As  the  wise  look  tolerantly  upon 
the  present,  so  the  common  mind  contemplates  the  past 
with  pity  and  without  anger.  The  dead  walk  uncen- 
sured through  dark  paths  and  in  a shadow  of  sin:  for, 
from  the  calm  standpoint  that  distance  gives,  they  appear 
scarcely  free  agents,  and  their  concluded  fortunes  are 
touched  with  urgent  pathos. 

It  may  be  said  with  some  truth  that  the  writer  who 
takes  his  theme  from  this  atmosphere  receives  an  ad- 
ventitious aid,  the  more  if  he  deals  with  fact,  for  it  has 
already  become  romance : characters  and  scenes  are  made 
pictures,  framed  in  charitable  retrospect. 

On  this  hope  let  me  rest  my  story,  for  its  actors  have 
been  dumb  and  quiescent  for  more  than  a quarter  of  a 
century— one  in  a land  grave,  one  as  deep  as  men  sink  in 
the  sea,  and  one  in  seclusion  as  close  as  death. 


208 


STOWE  NOTES 


How  some  pieces  of  music— those  pieces  that  A 

used  to  play — bring  her  back  again ! The  remembrance 
of  her  sweet  eyes,  “Stars,  stars” — and  now  they  are  dark 
and  shrouded ! 

Her  vibrant  voice,  her  clear  and  open  glance,  the 
curves  of  her  passionless  lips,  the  sparkling,  golden  mass 
of  her  hair,  her  supple  body  and  delicate  white  hands  are 
all  dead— cold,  cold,  and  lifeless.  How  strange  she  must 
have  looked  being  dead— how  drawn  her  face— how  old 
and  sorrowful ! 

Her  spirit  lives  in  those  melodies  of  Beethoven  and 
Schumann  and  in  the  songs  of  Liszt. 

Ah,  those  chill  winter  evenings,  when,  shut  in  the 
warm  draped  room,  sweet  with  the  odor  of  flowers — the 
delicate  scent  of  Marshal  Niel  roses  that  were  her  favor- 
ites— sitting  silent,  perhaps,  before  the  bright  wood  fire, 
from  time  to  time  turning,  in  silent  comment,  her  pale 
blue  eyes  with  their  rims  of  thick  white  lashes ; or,  more 
often,  at  the  piano,  her  tapering  fingers  pressed  upon  the 
keys,  and  her  voice  filling  the  room ! 

A , the  simple-hearted,  the  nobly  serious,  whose 

life  was  a protest  against  the  vanity  and  folly  of  this 
modern  world.  As  she  appeared  then,  bright  in  the  glow 
of  those  swift  and  happy  nights,  or,  sweetly  pensive,  in 
the  sad  winter  twilight : so  do  I see  her  now  as  I listen  to 
these  heavenly  sounds.  Yes,  it  is  all  embalmed  in  the 
melody  of  her  voice  that  still  rings  in  “Wo  bist  du”  and 
“Die  Lorelei.”  How  much  more  sweetly  does  the  music 
of  her  soul  float  in  among  the  discords  of  life!  It  is  in 
other  ears  than  mine,  heard  by  those  that  never  knew  the 
strains  of  her  voice — by  unborn  generations:  so  sings 


FRAGMENTS 


209 


her  soul,  shining  like  a star  in  this  muddy  world.  If 
there  is  any  Heaven — other  than  the  Heaven  of  Good 
Deeds,  of  which  she  is  the  brightest  angel — surely  she  is 
a partaker  of  its  joys. 

Pan's  Pipes 

So  time  speaks  of  the  decay  of  the  old  order,  for  truly 
the  halls  of  Valhalla  and  Olympus  are  dusty  and  neg- 
lected. Yet,  are  they  dead  in  spirit,  or  is  it  but  the  old 
form  that  has  passed  away? 

Oh,  skies,  Olympus,  now  a garret  full  of  broken  toys ! 
Desolate  Olympus!  There  lie  the  mouldering  goblets, 
the  bowl  that  rosy-fingered  Hebe  bore  about  the  magic 
circle ; Ceres'  horn  of  plenty,  too  small  a matter  to  typify 
the  vast  agricultural  realization  of  to-day ; Apollo's  lyre, 
its  all  too  simple  music  unstrung  and  silent — these  dusty 
relics— also  Mercury's  caduceus  and  Pan's  pipes.  What 
of  the  cunning  serpents? 

If  centuries  so  different  in  purpose  should  strangely 
exhibit  a still  conscious  life,  and  a wandering  gust  by 
chance  whisper  a note  on  the  long-silenced  reed,  would 
it  not  breathe  thus  ? — 

The  pipes:  That  wind  came  fresh  from  the  forest, 
methinks,  and  carried  with  it  a scent  like  the  lindens  in 
July,*  the  drone  of  bumble  and  honey  bees,  and  the  little 
pipe  of  the  many  tiny  winged  things. 

The  serpents:  What  note  is  that?  Of  the  old  half- 

* The  air  blew  from  trees  at  vast  distance,  even  from  northern  Vermont  per- 
chance: for  there  the  basswood  or  linden  flowers  in  July,  though  in  most  tem- 
perate countries  a month  earlier.  [Author’s  note.] 


210 


STOWE  NOTES 


beast  piper?  Truly,  we  thought  of  all  this  faded  com- 
pany his  pipes  would  be  the  last  to  sound. 

The  pipes : Once  the  half-god  spoke  for  more  than 
half  the  world,  and  blithely.  Is  he  dumb,  yet  not  dead  ? 
He  lives  still  in  secrecy  and  suffering;  he  dwells  in 
silence  terribly  imposed.  ’Tis  better  so;  for  if  it  were 
broken,  a cry  of  agony  would  rise,  so  bitter,  so  piercing, 
that  neither  gods  nor  men  might  endure  to  hear  it. 

The  serpents:  So  is  it  ever  with  the  simple  nature, 
while  it  fares  well  with  the  wise  or  the  cunning.  Mer- 
cury carries  all ; Mars  is  his  slave ; Minerva  and  Apollo 
stoop  to  him;  he  is  the  Jove  of  the  new  Olympus. 


PENCILAND  PEN-AND-INK 
DRAWINGS 


r 


V -.  . 


AVlK'W' 


EXTRACTS 
FROM  LETTERS 
1882-1896 


Old  Orchard  in  Nantucket 


EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Nantucket,  August  5,  1882. 

Nantucket  I really  like;  there  is  a great  deal  that  is 
attractive  about  it ; but  when  in  your  description  of  the 
sunset  at  Mohonk  you  spoke  of  the  tall  pine  trees,  the 
absolute  lack  of  such  scenery  all  summer  struck  me 
quite  forcibly. 

The  other  night  we  had  a most  magnificent  effect 
here— the  aurora.  Imagine  a mass  of  dark  clouds  lying 
upon  the  horizon,  and  from  behind  them  shafts  of  light 
stretching  up  to  the  centre  of  the  sky,  the  stars  shining 
in  them— that  was  how  it  looked  at  first,  but  in  a little 
while  the  whole  northern  sky  was  pulsating  like  an  enor- 
mous fire. 

This  town  is  really  very  quaint.  I am  at  work  (in 
the  afternoon)  upon  a study  of  some  old  houses  I see 
from  my  window.  In  the  mornings  I paint  in  a most 
delightful  old  orchard,  where  the  trees  are  quite  mar- 
vellously twisted  and  old. 

I grow  more  certain  every  day  that  the  mountains 
are  to  me  much  more  delightful  than  the  seaside. 

TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  July  9,  1887. 

We  were  driven  home  by  a thunder-cloud  of  tremen- 
dous and  threatening  aspect,  and  caught  the  first  drops 


215 


2l6 


STOWE  NOTES 


as  we  crossed  the  road  to  the  hotel  piazza.  It  was  quite 
a storm — a deluge  of  water,  and  a wind  of  great  force 
that  blew  the  rain  like  clouds  of  smoke  over  the  ridge- 
poles of  the  barns  and  houses. 

We  chanced  upon  a peculiarly  comical  episode  in  the 
course  of  our  walk.  Entering  the  long  covered  bridge 
we  have  to  pass  (you  know  the  one,  of  course)  in  order 
to  reach  your  hill,  we  noticed  two  men  at  the  further 
end,  busily  employed  with  a brush,  a pail,  and  a great 
roll  of  papers,  seemingly  engaged  in  the  art  of  poster- 
sticking.  We  then  perceived  that  over  the  old  advertise- 
ments of  the  Barnum  London  Circus,  etc.,  new  and 
startlingly  brilliant  bills  were  judiciously  pasted,  setting 
forth  the  "Aggregation  of  Cabalistic  Wonders— Taylor 
the  Wizard  King,”  with  portrait— a kind  of  imitation 
Hermann,  with  a curly  red  imperial  and  distinctly 
waxed  mustaches,  arrayed  in  a dress  suit  with  diamond 
cross  and  shirt-buttons,  and  made  yet  more  resplendent 
by  numerous  and  sparkling  orders.  "The  King,”  so  the 
bill  continued,  "assisted  by  the  Distinguished  Artist, 
Mile.  Irena— Mile.  Irena  in  her  great  European  Suc- 
cess,” wherein  she  was  depicted,  in  complete  Eastern 
costume,  floating  airily  over  the  heads  of  a distinguished, 
awe-inspired,  and  (presumably)  European  audience. 
There  was  yet  another  bill,  descriptive  of  a second  attrac- 
tion—this  a conjurer— representing  him  (pictorially) 
revealing  the  wonders  of  his  art. 

After  such  a preparation  as  the  above,  imagine  our 
feelings  when,  on  reaching  the  further  end  of  the  bridge, 
we  discovered  in  the  person  of  one  of  the  bill-posters  the 
Wizard  King  himself.  His  dress  coat  was  removed,  but 


LETTERS 


217 


otherwise  he  stood  before  us  in  all  respects  the  brilliant 
personage  of  his  advertisement;  the  low-cut  vest  and 
polished  boots,  the  diamond  cross  and  buttons,  the  flash- 
ing orders,  the  red  imperial  and  mustaches,  waxed  to  the 
last  possible  extreme,  were  all  clearly  revealed  to  our 
astonished  gaze.  Happening  incidentally  to  glance  at 
the  other  poster  of  bills,  we  thought  we  could  detect, 
under  a shabby  tile  and  a general  air  of  vagabondage,  a 
strong  likeness  to  the  conjurer  before  mentioned.  It  is 
needless  to  remark  that  we  looked  with  considerable  in- 
terest for  Mile.  Irena. 

By  the  way,  I shall  hope  to  write  you  again  on  the 
subject  of  the  Wizard  King;  we  propose  to  make  in- 
quiries as  regards  the  character  of  his  show,  and,  if 
possible,  see  it.  He  has  been  running  in  my  head  all  the 
evening;  I can't  help  but  wonder  whether  his  profes- 
sional is  his  only  dress — if  he  wears  a duster  in  the  course 
of  his  travels,  or  always  goes  about,  as  we  beheld  him, 
wasting  himself  in  the  vulgar  glare  of  the  day. 

TO  HIS  SISTER 

New  York,  November  19,  1887. 

You  asked  me  to  write  you  about  the  “Faust"  show, 
but  M.  has  probably  sent  you  full  particulars.  However, 
in  accordance  with  my  promise,  I shall  say  a word  or  two 
on  the  subject. 

We  were  all  on  hand;  the  family  circle  shone  with 
familiar  faces.  There  were  the  B.’s  and  the  Joblights 
and  the  Jumblies,  whose  hands  in  the  course  of  the  even- 
ing assumed  their  original  coloring;  and  as  the  per- 


2l8 


STOWE  NOTES 


formance  drew  to  a close  and  Mr.  Irving  came  before 
the  curtain  to  deliver  his  little  speech,  the  gunpowder 
was  distinctly  observed  to  run  out  at  the  heels  of  their 
boots — at  least  there  arose  such  a dust  in  the  vicinity 
of  Joseph,  resulting  from  the  combined  and  vigor- 
ous action  of  his  heels  and  umbrella,  that  certain 
proud  intruders,  unknown  to  the  gods,  begged  that  he 
would  give  vent  to  his  enthusiasm  in  some  less  violent 
manner. 

I believe  it  would  be  impossible  to  speak  too  highly  of 
Miss  Terry’s  acting  just  here.  Throughout  the  piece  she 
seems  to  me  to  act  more  carefully,  with  greater  earnest- 
ness and  continuity,  than  ever  before. 

The  only  fault  to  be  found  with  the  stage  manage- 
ment is  that  it  may  be,  perhaps,  a little  too  complex.  Mr. 
Irving  carries  out  his  theories  bravely.  The  stage  is 
two  thirds  of  the  time  in  an  unusual  gloom,  and  there  is 
a bold  and  lavish  use  of  music.  The  curtain  never  falls 
until  the  end,  darkness  favoring  the  changing  of  the 
scenes,  that  seem  to  melt  one  into  another.  The  inten- 
tion is,  I suppose,  to  convey  the  idea  of  a dream. 

I don’t  know  that  I ever  entertained  any  notions  re- 
specting the  devil ; it’s  a little  hard  to  criticise  anybody’s 
Mephistopheles,  and  far  be  it  from  me  to  attempt  the 
like  with  Mr.  Irving’s.  He  is  very  picturesque,  and  cer- 
tainly a figure  that  remains  vividly  in  mind.  He  is  per- 
haps a little  inadequate  at  moments  that  require  great 
force,  as,  for  instance,  when  he  reminds  Faust  that  he 
has  to  do  with  the  devil.  You  would  delight,  I feel  sure, 
in  all  the  scenes  with  Martha.  His  costume  and  make-up 
are  admirable;  his  face  has  what  Hawthorne  calls,  in 


A v\  K R RY 


CHRISTMAS 


Tin 


1.^  ; ;<• 


1 


CINDERELLA  HEARS 
THE  CLOC  K STRIKE 
TV/ELVE. 


LETTERS 


219 


speaking  of  the  dead  Judge  Pyncheon,  “a  swarthy 
pallor.” 

I have  now,  to  begin  with,  a little  drawing  of  a rose, 
with  “For  Dorothea”  printed  in  Roman  capitals;  like- 
wise, upon  the  succeeding  page,  engrossed  “The  Story 
of  Cinderella,”  with  all  the  properties  drawed  off:  the 
fairy  godmother  taking  flight  up  the  kitchen  chimney, 
and  on  the  hearth,  dancing  in  a circle  about  the  pumpkin, 
the  rat,  the  two  lizards,  and  the  six  white  mice.  The  little 
shoe  also  occurs  in  a corner  of  the  page.  On  one  sheet 
there  are  three  small  pictures — of  the  conjuring,  the 
proclamation,  and  the  trying  on.  Also  four  full-page 
pictures — of  the  Prince  on  horseback,  the  marriage,  and 
Cinderella  before  the  footlights,  taking  her  call;  lastly, 
the  children’s  supper  on  their  return  from  the  play.  As 
soon  as  I can  get  some  holly  I shall  draw  a wreath  with 
a “Merry  Christmas”  printed  inside,  as  a frontispiece. 

I have  had  it  in  mind  to  draw  off  Bluebeard  in  pen 
and  ink.  It  would  be  much  more  interesting  to  do  than 
Cinderella— it  is  so  much  more  dramatic;  though,  for 
that  matter,  what  could  be  better  than  the  situation  of 
the  clock  striking  twelve,  in  the  ball-room  scene  of  the 
latter  ? 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

New  York,  April  2,  1888. 

I don’t  know  if  I have  already  told  you,  or  not,  that  I 
went  to  Brooklyn,  to  one  John  Arkhurst,  and  purchased 
two  beautiful  specimens  of  luna  moths,  male  and  female. 
I have  had  in  mind  for  some  time  to  paint  a picture,  a 


220 


STOWE  NOTES 


moonlight  scene,  the  lot  back  of  the  hotel  at  Stowe,  and 
a luna  moth  with  outspread  wings  risen  into  the  moon- 
light from  behind  a little  bush  of  witch-hazel  that  grows 
there— last  summer  hung  with  white  morning-glories 
that  on  nights  of  middle  moons  were  open  and  generally 
full  of  dew.  It  is  only  by  regarding  my  moths  as  models 
that  I can  justify  myself  in  the  possession  of  them.  The 
extra  luna  and  a large  and  beautiful  Attacus  polyphe- 
mus  still  weigh  heavily  upon  my  conscience. 

I have  time  and  time  again  sat  down  with  my  pen  in 
my  hand  on  purpose  to  write  you  all  about  Robert,  but  I 
find  I have  nothing  to  say  on  the  subject.  I was  too  ex- 
cited on  the  Claudio  night  to  take  away  a very  clear  im- 
pression of  him,  but  I know  that  it  was  more  than  good. 
The  speech  about  death,  as  he  says  it,  is,  according  to 
Madame  Modjeska,  pathetic.  I think  it  was  more  than 
pathetic— it  seemed  to  bring  the  idea  terribly  near;  I’m 
sure  most  people  in  the  theatre  were  strangely  touched. 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

New  York,  January  22,  1889. 

Robert’s  Orlando  was  beautiful  in  parts.  In  the  peni- 
tential speech,  “If  ever  you  have  sat  at  good  men’s  feasts, 
If  ever,”  etc.,  he  touched  the  deepest  note  of  feeling  that 
was  sounded  that  night.  I never  heard  the  lines  so  well 
spoken ; I wondered  if  there  were  not  something  deeper 
and  more  serious  in  them  than  in  any  others  that  occur  in 
the  play.  Madame’s  remark  on  his  Claudio  I thought 
applied  well  to  him  as  he  said  those  lines. 


LETTERS 


221 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Camden,  S.  G,  April  n,  1889. 

To-day,  although  there  is  a pleasant  breeze,  it  is  hot 
in  the  sun,  and  looking  south,  as  we  do  from  this  piazza, 
comparatively  near  objects  are  indistinct  in  a hot  white 
haze.  The  most  delightful  and  wonderful  music  of 
mockingbirds  is  continually  ringing  in  our  ears;  they 
never  seem  to  cease  singing  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  even 
when  flying.  They  are  noisy  in  this  garden,  of  which 
the  comparatively  unkept  condition  seems  to  offer  them 
peculiar  advantages.  There  is  an  alley  of  holly  and 
mock-oranges,  very  dense,  at  the  foot  of  the  garden, 
leading  a distance  of  about  a hundred  yards  to  the  road, 
and  here  they  throng,  singing,  fluttering,  and  alighting 
among  the  leaves,  with  their  white-tipped  wings  and  tail 
outspread  fan-like,  in  exactly  the  attitude  of  Mr.  Audu- 
bon’s beautiful  drawing. 

The  country  is  now  in  a charming  state,  the  light 
spring  greens  filling  out  with  solid  forms,  and  contrast- 
ing with  the  dark  pines. 

The  day  before  yesterday  we  drove  out  to  an  old 
place  called  “Mulberry,”  lately  the  property  of  a General 
Chestnut,  and  built  by  his  family  in  1820.  It  is  the  best 
instance  of  a swell  Southern  home  I have  ever  seen,  a 
very  large  brick  building  of  colonial  style— i.e.,  piazza  in 
front  with  very  beautiful  Doric  columns,  and  a wide 
sweep  of  stone  steps.  It  lies  in  rather  low  ground,  near 
a swamp,  about  three  miles  from  Camden.  The  way  to 
it  is  a most  indifferent  country  road,  running  through  an 


222 


STOWE  NOTES 


almost  houseless  wilderness.  There  are  a few  negro 
cabins  in  its  vicinity,  but  otherwise  it  stands  alone.  I 
can’t  get  over  the  strangeness  of  this ; it  would  not  be  so 
odd  if  there  were  not  all  the  evidences  of  a new  and  ap- 
parently unopened  country,  the  seamy  side  and  the 
ragged  ends  exceedingly  visible  in  a bad  road,  charred 
clearings,  and  miserable  huts,  and,  at  the  end  of  all,  a 
truly  grand  old  mansion,  stranded  as  inconsequently  as  a 
glacial  boulder. 

The  grounds,  even  at  this  early  spring  stage  of 
foliage,  are  a little  gloomy.  The  house  is  set  in  the  midst 
of  a level  park  of  water  and  willow  oaks,  some  of  con- 
siderable size,  a few  live  oaks,  some  hickory  and  holly 
trees,  and  dogwood  and  crab-apple,  both  now  in  bloom. 

It  is  said  that  the  present  owner,  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  square  rods  of  cotton,  cut  down  a long  succession  of 
beautiful  old  crab-apple  trees  that  lined  one  side  of  the 
avenue  that  leads  to  the  road. 

Until  yesterday  I did  n’t  know  that  clouds  could  ap- 
pear in  this  sky,  which  till  that  time  had  remained  an 
unbroken  cloudless  expanse.  In  this  flat  land  the  sky 
seems  a thousand  times  greater  than  it  does  in  the  moun- 
tains ; I was  never  in  any  place  where  I felt  the  world  to 
be  so  large.  Camden  itself  seems  to  stretch  out  inter- 
minably; it  is  a country  of  infinite  perspective.  The 
straight  roads,  lined  with  cloudy  trees  that  grow  bluer 
and  bluer,  stretch  away  until  all  the  lines  converge  and 
meet  on  the  horizon. 

The  sky  fades  from  a very  deep  blue  at  the  apex  to  a 
cloudy  pink,  against  which  are  the  dark  green  pines  and 
the  delicate  emerald  tints  of  the  water  oaks. 


, i VC  \ v 
Vv'/v't?.  A 


"fv 


, 1 V v \ 


LETTERS 


223 


Twilight  shuts  in  rather  sadly;  there  is  often  a great 
deal  of  smoke  in  the  air,  and  toward  dusk  things  become 
dim  and  ghostly.  After  sunset  the  air  is  very  lively  with 
bird  notes — mockingbirds,  sparrows,  and  the  little  tufted 
titmice ; and  when  these  are  quiet  there  is  a loud  whizzing 
of  insects,  a ringing  of  tree  toads,  and  a very  far-off 
hollow  chant  of  frogs.  Little  Brer  Rabbits  hop  silently 
into  the  garden  and  begin  nibbling  the  stalks,  and  bats 
(little  red  bats)  flutter  around  the  piazza. 

From  time  to  time  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  when 
everything  is  quiet,  the  mockingbirds  break  out  into 
short  and  most  unexpected  bursts  of  song. 

Very  odd  people  turn  up  here  occasionally.  The  other 
day  a man  of  eccentric  appearance,  with  one  fixed  and 
one  roving  eye,  came  apparently  in  quest  of  a ghost.  He 
made  inquiries  about  all  the  old  houses  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, in  the  hope  that  they  might  be  haunted,  and  when 
he  heard  that  “Mulberry/’  the  place  I told  you  of,  was 
said  to  be  frequented  by  a ghostly  lady  in  gray,  he  tried 
to  persuade  old  Jim,  the  black  butler,  to  go  down  there 
with  him  and  spend  the  night,  and  asked  him  in  the  event 
of  encountering  the  spirit  what  he  would  do — “Run,  or 
stand  and  address  it?”  I believe  Jim  said  he  should 
run. 

I have  been  trying  to  read  “Richard  Feverel,”  but  I 
don’t  seem  to  get  on  very  fast,  or  with  much  enjoyment. 
I like  the  admirable  choice  of  words,  and  I am  impressed 
continually  with  its  cleverness ; but  the  story  is  explained, 
rather  than  told,  in  too  lofty  a manner,  with  words 
and  phrases  in  capitals— too  Charles-Reade-like  for  my 
taste. 


224 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Hot  Springs,  N.  C.,  May  8,  1889. 

By  the  way,  I did  think  of  something  the  other  day, 
which  I dare  say  has  been  thought  and  said  often  before, 
but  is  to  me  a new  idea— to  you,  I suppose,  old.  It  is 
this:  that  the  first  two  lines  of  Shelley’s  “Skylark”  (I 
was  repeating  it  to  myself)  sound  his  false  note: 

“Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert.” 

This  is  contrary  to  Matthew  Arnold’s  definition  of 
poetry,  is  it  not?  “Noble  thoughts  applied  to  life.”  If 
Wordsworth  had  been  the  writer,  he  would  have  taken 
pleasure  (would  he  not?)  to  allow  the  skylark  a bird, 
and  not  a spirit. 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  October  26,  1889. 

I am  almost  afraid  you  will  not  be  able  to  come  to  see 
me  when  you  get  home,  because  this  climate  is  exces- 
sively cold,  and  requires  a kind  of  Corin  outfit,  sheepskin 
leggings  and  such.  I have  lately  been  investigating  the 
winter  costume  of  these  regions,  and  I find  it  is  some- 
thing like  this. 

It  is  beginning  to  get  cold  already;  snow  has  been 
hanging  on  the  Mountain  since  the  last  of  September,  and 
we  have  had  a very  respectable  snow-storm  in  the  valley. 

I enjoyed  your  letter  exceedingly.  I feel  almost  cul- 
pably provincial,  hearing  of  these  bits  of  news  from  for- 


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LETTERS 


225 


eign  climes  and  (as  Mr.  Stevenson  has  it)  the  Modern 
Bagdad. 

The  putting  of  H.  Christian  Andersen’s  “Snow 
Queen”  into  a little  operetta  does  greatly  tickle  my  fancy; 
I should  have  liked  exceedingly  to  see  it. 

TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  November  18,  1889. 

I could  tell  you  of  a delightful  wintry  drive  we  took 
yesterday,  over  snowy  and  frozen  roads,  away  up  into 
Nebraska  Notch,  which  seems  so  remote  and  wild  in  this 
cold  season — the  trees  on  the  hillsides  standing  against 
a background  of  snow ; the  bare  rocky  surfaces  and  all 
the  lesser  brooks  and  springs  ice-coated;  the  cattle  hud- 
dled in  the  farm-yards ; the  farmers  in  knitted  nightcaps, 
buffalo  coats,  and  sheepskin  leggings.  To-day  has  been 
warm ; much  of  the  snow  is  melted. 

I am  going  to  move  a little  kerosene  stove  into  my 
painting  hut,  for  my  hands  get  so  stiff  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  paint.  My  picture  gets  on  marvellously  slowly. 
I have  been  shifting  my  traps  about  to  take  in  several 
varieties  of  evergreens,  and  I expect  to  call  the  picture 
“Hemlock-Spruce,  Spruce,  Fir,  and  Pine.”  Do  you  think 
this  too  funny?  It  is  to  be  a kind  of  botanical  study, 

TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  November  30,  1889. 

This  morning  the  thermometer  was  at  170 ; but  as 
there  was  no  wind,  and  as  the  sun  shone,  the  air  was  al- 
most summer-like. 


226 


STOWE  NOTES 


We  have  spent  most  of  the  afternoon  riding  about  on 
the  ox-sleigh— to  the  upper  barn  for  straw,  to  the  woods 
for  fire-wood.  This  last  expedition  we  made  about  sun- 
set. You  can  imagine  how  beautiful  it  was:  a red  glow 
behind  the  trees,  and  long  blue  shadows,  a tinge  of  pink 
on  Sterling  and  the  mountains  northward. 

The  Canadian  with  the  red  nightcap  informed  us 
that  he  had  known  it  here  as  cold  as  44  ° below  zero.  The 
part  of  Canada  he  came  from,  however,  was  colder,  he 
thought.  He  went  on  to  extol  the  benefit  of  open  air ; he 
said  he  was  poorly  as  a child,  from  five  to  fifteen  was 
“recruiting  up,”  at  his  sixteenth  year  took  to  wood- 
chopping, and  ever  since  had  been  “as  tough  as  a 
b’ar  ” 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  December  7,  1889. 

The  other  day  I rode  down  to  the  village  on  the  wood 
sledge.  It  was  rather  fun.  Although  we  had  a chain  on 
the  runners  to  serve  as  a brake,  the  horses  were  pushed 
along  at  quite  a lively  pace,  bucking  and  kicking  in  their 
endeavors  to  hold  back  the  load.  We  went  to  the  grist- 
mill for  some  corn  meal,  and  stopped  also  at  Mr.  Straw’s 
to  encourage  him  to  finish  the  windows.  Everybody  had 
on  the  most  delightful  costumes.  There  was  one  old  man 
at  the  mill  in  an  old  sealskin  cap  and  a coonskin  coat, 
who  was  a very  lovely  specimen.  Mr.  Love  joy  (who 
runs  the  mill)  came  out  to  speak  to  Mr.  Cobb,  his  rubi- 
cund countenance  done  up  in  a blue  checked  handker- 
chief. 


Ctry  L Vc^  /yx.< 

J.y ,\-*\si\,  l Ij^  7 1 vi d/  c^\i,  \d*  X^-v^v.'-, 


. 


LETTERS 


227 


December  8. 

I take  the  keenest  delight  in  Hans  Christian  his  book. 
I feel  it  is  what  one  ought  never  to  be  without ; as  essen- 
tial, almost,  as  Shakespeare. 

There  is  a little  flock  of  blue  jays  continually  around 
the  grain  house,  tapping  at  the  walls  like  woodpeckers, 
until  the  indignant  squirrels  burst  out  of  the  cracks  and 
crannies  and  disperse  them. 

This  morning  I went  into  the  sugar-wood  and 
sketched  for  an  hour.  The  air  was  warm  and  balmy, 
very  spring-like,  the  mountains  in  a haze.  The  snow  in 
the  wood  was  crossed  and  recrossed  by  the  prints  of 
squirrels’  feet. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  December  9,  1889. 

By  the  way,  if  you  want  an  uncanny  set  of  verses, 
something  in  the  style  of  those  you  sent  me,  why  don’t 
you  read  “The  Lykewake  Dirge,”  or  death-watch  dirge, 
in  William  Allingham’s  “Ballad  Book”?  For  so  simple 
a ditty,  it  seems  to  possess  considerable  hair-lifting  pow- 
ers. Perhaps  it  may  not  affect  you  so ; you  ought  to  be 
sitting  alone  at  night  in  a farmhouse,  the  other  inmates 
having  gone  to  bed  and  the  wind  whistling  and  moaning 
outside,  properly  to  appreciate  it. 

I like  to  hear  about  little  things  like  your  encounter 
in  the  car.  That  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  a city 
so  attractive,  and  New  York  the  most  so  of  any.  Being 
in  New  York  is  like  having  a free  ticket  to  a Chinese 
theatre,  to  a kind  of  drama  that  has  no  ending. 


228 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  December  27,  1889. 

Forgive  me,  Joe,  that  I have  not  answered  your  letter 
before.  God  knows  I am  not  greatly  pressed  for  time, 
nor  am  I likely  to  add  much  to  my  answer  by  letting  it 
linger  a week  or  so.  The  fact  is,  country  people  live  on 
very  generous  terms  with  time;  all  their  deeds,  letters 
included,  are  characterized  by  a liberal  margin,  though 
not  on  paper. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Worcester,  Mass.,  January  3,  1890. 

It  is  now  endeavoring  to  snow;  the  changeableness 
of  the  weather  is  tiresome.  Excepting  the  first  week  in 
December,  we  have  had  no  real  winter  weather — it  has 
been  either  April  thaws  or  windy,  dry,  frozen  March 
days.  There  has  been  very  little  of  the  charm  of  winter. 
I am  not  prepared  to  define  the  charm,  but  I think  it  has 
much  to  do  with  snow,  and  large  snowflakes. 

TO  HIS  SISTER 

Worcester,  January,  1890. 

I am  under  a painful  compulsion  to  send  you  the 
verses*  on  the  opposite  page.  I have  been  twisting  and 
turning  of  them  inside  out  ever  since  I left  Stowe.  Con- 
sidering their  intrinsic  weight,  they  have  sat  very  heavy 
on  my  soul.  It  is  like  employing  a religious  expert  to 

* “The  North  Countrie.”  (Printed  on  page  335-) 


LETTERS 


229 


lay  a ghost,  to  get  somebody  to  read  your  vexed  verses — 
they  cease  to  writhe,  they  no  longer  prey  on  your  feel- 
ings. 

These,  I need  hardly  say,  fail  to  express  my  feeling, 
though  they  may  convey  a shadow  of  it.  I feel  as  if  I 
might  sometime  write  something  like  a poem  on  this 
theme — a presumptuous  statement,  but  I feel  it — the 
theme— as  a great  inspiration. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  March  6,  1890. 

On  the  10th  of  February,  I think,  we  had  a severe 
snow-storm.  When  I looked  out  of  my  window  in  the 
morning  and  saw  our  next  neighbor  driving  his  ox- 
sledge  through  the  drifts,  I wished  for  you  to  see  and 
appreciate  so  savage  a picture  of  Winter.  He  had  on 
his  sheepskin  leggings,  a long  blue  homespun  blouse  or 
kaftan  or  something,  belted  in  at  the  waist,  his  face  and 
cap  tied  up  in  a red  muffler,  his  mustache  and  eyebrows 
perfectly  white.  He  came  striding  through  the  snow, 
sinking  in  above  his  knees  at  every  other  step,  shaking 
his  long  whip-lash  over  the  struggling  oxen,  the  wind 
making  smoke  of  the  snow — as  in  Schreyer’s  pictures. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  March  12,  1890. 

I spent  this  morning  in  the  sugar-woods  watching 
the  oxen  hauling  logs,  which  is  really  rather  exciting. 
There  is  a popular  notion  that  the  ox  is  a slow,  stately, 


230 


STOWE  NOTES 


and  rather  dull  animal.  If  you  could  see  them  springing 
over  fallen  trees,  pushing  their  way  through  underbrush, 
sliding  down  steep  icy  slopes,  plunging  full  depth  in 
bogs,  always  extricating  themselves  with  nimbleness 
and  dispatch,  you  would  change  your  preconceived  ideas 
and  regard  them  as  particularly  spry  and  intelligent 
creatures.  Notwithstanding  all  their  cleverness,  the 
poor  things  end  every  day  with  cut  and  bleeding  knees. 
It  is  terrible  to  see  animals  so  remorselessly  driven ; but 
you  can  hardly  wonder  at  it  when  you  see  what  herculean 
tasks  the  men  themselves  perform. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  March  22,  1890. 

Sugaring  began  this  afternoon.  I have  just  now 
(about  one  p.m.)  come  down  from  the  woods,  where 
they  are  still  collecting  sap.  Since  this  morning  they 
have  collected  four  tubs  full  (vats  about  three  feet  high 
and  ten  feet  in  circumference),  and  had  not  quite  fin- 
ished. The  sap  ran  freely;  the  pails  on  some  of  the  trees 
tapped  this  morning  were  full  to  the  brim. 

This  being  a warmish  day,  the  snow  that  came  last 
night  on  a north  wind  adheres  to  the  branches  in  so  great 
a degree  that  the  woods  seem  to  have  burst  into  white 
foliage.  Nothing  is  left  uncovered  but  the  trunks  and 
some  of  the  larger  boughs ; the  rest  is  cloudy  white,  as 
dense  as  spring  foliage.  There’s  a prospect  of  more 
snow ; but  the  occasional  gleams  of  sunlight  this  morning 
have  much  diminished  the  beautiful  effects. 


LETTERS 


231 


March  25. 

I saw  Henry  sugar  off  about  eighty  pounds  of  maple 
sugar  yesterday.  It  may  be  interesting  to  you  to  know 
the  process. 

The  syrup  drawn  off  from  the  evaporators  is  put  in 
a large  pan,  set  over  a fire,  and  boiled  for  about  an  hour 
and  a half.  The  means  of  ascertaining  when  it  is  done 
sufficiently  is  amusing,  I think.  They  have  a little  twig 
of  birch  bent  in  a loop,  and  when  on  blowing  through  it, 
after  dipping  it  in  the  syrup,  the  sugar  flies  out  in  little 
filmy  strips  like  shavings,  they  swing  the  pan  off  the  fire 
by  means  of  chains  and  a pulley  fastened  to  the  ceiling, 
and  allow  the  contents  to  cool.  While  it  is  still  in  a 
gluey,  half-melted  condition,  they  pour  it  into  the  cans— 
and  there  you  are ! While  the  syrup  is  boiling,  it  seems 
to  be  the  custom  to  scrape  off  the  warm  sugar  that  can- 
dies on  the  side  of  the  pan  and  devour  the  same,  which  is 
very  good.  Everybody  goes  provided  with  little  paddles 
whittled  out  of  basswood. 

To-day  is  most  dismal — chilly  and  gray,  and  the 
roads  frozen  up  again.  But  we  have  had  beautiful 
nights,  cold  and  starry. 

TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  April  25,  1890. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I drove  up  the  Sterling  brook 
road  to  the  sawmill.  You  can  imagine  nothing  more 
charming.  The  road  is  for  the  most  part  good,  being 
sandy,  and  in  the  bad  places  repaired  with  cart-loads  of 
sawdust  and  shingle  by  the  lavish  lumbermen.  Although 


232 


STOWE  NOTES 


the  deciduous  trees  were  leafless  of  course,  the  green 
mosses  and  the  extraordinary  greenness  of  the  spruces 
made  an  effect  delightfully  summerish.  But  I was 
pained  to  see  a mountain  of  spruce  logs  at  the  mill,  and 
masses  of  sawed  timber  piled  as  high  as  the  roof ; they 
seem  to  be  doing  the  business  on  a gigantic  scale,  and  I 
should  imagine  will  in  no  great  space  of  time  clear 
Sterling  as  bare  of  spruces  as  Elmore  or  the  Mountain. 

I went  up  the  road  that  we  couldn't  pass  when  we 
were  last  there,  you  remember,  on  account  of  the  drifts. 
There  was  still  a little  snow  on  north  slopes,  but  plows 
were  cutting  into  the  gray  field  along  the  windy  ridges, 
and  the  whole  country  was  ringing  with  the  piping  of 
spring  frogs. 

April  27. 

Last  night  we  had  a heavy  fall  of  snow,  from  two  to 
three  inches,  and  to-day  everything  is  white,  under  a 
leaden  sky.  The  jays,  that  have  not  been  seen  for  two 
weeks  past,  are  screaming  and  doing  the  gentlemen  of 
Japan  act  outside  the  front  windows.  However,  the 
thermometer  is  nearly  up  to  40  °,  so  that  this  wintry 
relapse  will  be  but  brief. 

TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  May  1,  1890. 

I have  about  half  finished  a picture  of  a hemlock- 
spruce  that  I am  very  anxious  for  you  to  see.  How  I 
wish  Thayer  might  cast  an  eagle  eye  upon  it ; how  I wish 
I could  drop  into  his  studio  to  warm  my  thin  blood  in  the 
glow  of  genius ! 


LETTERS 


233 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  May  5,  1890. 

This  morning  was  cold  (450)  and  cloudy  (it  has 
since  cleared  beautifully),  so  I devoted  it  to  a long  walk 
through  the  Pilgrims  and  the  west  pasture.  I found  (as 
I wrote  you)  yellow  and  white  violets,  and,  though  I 
don’t  know  whether  this  will  be  interesting,  I saw  a 
black-throated  green  warbler.  I found  Sammy  chained 
up  in  the  stable  (he  had  been  chasing  hens  with  intent  to 
slay)  and  howling  like  a dervish.  I took  him  out  walk- 
ing with  me,  and  he  was  very  obedient — and  is  certainly 
the  handsomest  dog  I ever  saw.  Still,  he’s  but  a poor 
hand  at  driving  cows.  As  Henry  says,  uHe’s  played 
too  much.”  Cows  at  this  time  of  year,  getting  out  after 
such  a long  confinement,  are  rather  difficult  to  manage, 
a difficulty  augmented  by  the  fact  of  the  frost  having 
thrown  the  fences  in  some  places,  and  Henry  and  Arthur 
are  driven  to  the  extremity  of  despair,  running  and 
shouting,  while  Sammy,  I regret  to  say,  only  adds  to  the 
confusion. 

I drove  down  to  the  graveyard  yesterday  to  have  a 
look  at  the  birds,  that  I knew  must  be  there  (a  sheltered 
spot)  if  anywhere.  You  can’t  imagine  how  charming  it 
was;  the  effects  from  the  valley,  where  the  grass  is 
greener  and  contrasts  very  vividly  with  the  purple  woods 
and  blue  mountains,  are  more  interesting  just  now  than 
from  higher  places.  There  were  myrtle  warblers,  a large 
variety  of  sparrows,  swifts,  bank  swallows,  I think,  and, 
to  be  heard,  blackbirds  and  thrushes. 


234 


STOWE  NOTES 


I see  the  apple  trees  in  the  yard  are  whitening  very 
slightly— the  buds  becoming  a little  evident. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  May  14,  1890. 

This  afternoon  it  is  raining,  but  I put  on  my  rubber 
boots  and  a mackintosh  and  have  been  walking  in  the 
west  pasture  and  the  Pilgrims.  The  south  slope  of  the 
pasture  is  covered  with  white  violets;  in  the  wood  the 
blue  predominate. 

In  Gray’s  “Botany”  frequently  occurs  the  descrip- 
tion of  locality,  “rich  damp  woods,  northward.”  It  very 
adequately  describes  the  Pilgrims  and  others  hereabout, 
where  every  boulder,  root,  and  north  side  of  bole  and 
limb  is  coated  with  moss— in  the  beeches  ranging  from 
blue  to  yellow  and  bronze,  and  in  all,  in  this  moist  spring 
weather,  vividly  bright. 

This  morning,  out  driving,  I had  a glimpse  of  orioles 
and  several  kinds  of  warblers.  Blackbirds,  robins,  war- 
blers, song  and  tree  sparrows,  and  thrushes  are  all  sing- 
ing now,  probably  at  their  best;  the  song  sparrows  not 
quite  so  musically  as  in  April,  and  bluebirds  heard  not  at 
all.  This  may  be  accident;  I don’t  know.  I have  been 
listening  to  the  hermit  thrushes  to-day  in  the  swamp. 
They  seem  to  choose  the  silent  times  of  other  birds  to 
sing  their  songs.  In  reality,  I think  they  are  very  con- 
stant singers : they  speak  deliberately,  at  long  intervals, 
but  almost  all  day  long.  They  can  be  heard  later  than 
most,  and  at  noon  of  hot  days  when  others  are  silent. 


V 


LETTERS 


235 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  May  16,  1890. 

The  flowers  of  the  June-berry  shrubs  are  very  deli- 
cate, and  make  interesting  points  on  roadsides. 

For  a wonder,  yesterday  afternoon  was  clear,  and 
after  dinner  I walked  a little  way  toward  the  Governor’s 
wood.  There  was  a slight  haze,  the  mountains  soft  and 
cloudy  in  spring  foliage,  and  open  places,  pastures,  and 
meadow  of  a bright  emerald  green.  The  trees  all  begin 
to  have  some  body;  the  beeches  are  the  greenest,  the 
maples  pale  pink,  lilac,  and  gold,  aspens  conspicuously 
yellow-green.  Thrushes  were  singing  in  such  numbers 
as  to  injure  the  effect. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  December  21,  1890. 

Last  night,  after  reading  Ibsen’s  “Ghosts,”  I was 
strongly  tempted  to  put  the  book  in  the  fire ; the  fact  that 
it  was  not  my  property  alone  restrained  me.  Yet  it  is 
almost  interesting  in  its  signal  intemperance,  so  aimless 
and  misdirected  an  attack  upon  society.  Will  the  pref- 
acers (a  silly  tribe)  insist  in  this  case,  as  they  do  re- 
specting the  “Doll’s  House,”  that  there  are  only  two 
positions  tenable  to  the  reader — entire  acceptance  of  or 
declared  warfare  with  the  views  of  the  writer  ? It  would 
be  instructive  to  see  what  they  had  to  say  in  this  in- 
stance. I fancy  it  would  trouble  them  to  define  exactly 
the  nature  of  Ibsen’s  protestantism  in  “Ghosts.”  It 


236 


STOWE  NOTES 


appears  to  me  as  little  better  than  a meaningless  display 
of  ugliness,  which,  far  from  answering  any  good  end,  is, 
in  my  mind,  precisely  the  reverse  of  moral.  To  put  this 
ugliness  in  the  form  of  a play  is  what  I particularly  re- 
sent. To  pursue  the  good  and  insist  upon  it  is  morality 
in  art;  and  this,  I think,  can  be  more  widely  applied  to 
life  also.  “Let  all  evil  sleep/’  says,  wisely  and  gently, 
the  woman  in  Tennyson’s  “Sea  Dreams.”  I don’t  believe 
that  any  denunciation  of  evil  is  so  powerful  for  good  as 
an  appeal  to  goodness. 

As  soon  as  one  begins  to  think  a little,  ideas  that  are 
older  than  the  pyramids,  and  that  have  been  presented  to 
the  sightless  eye  and  the  deaf  ear  in  many  forms,  sud- 
denly strike  one  with  the  force  of  an  original  conception. 
What  I have  said  just  now  is  trite,  doubtless,  but  not 
to  me. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  December  27,  1890. 

I never  saw  the  atmosphere  so  clear  as  it  was  Christ- 
mas night ; there  was  not  the  least  haze  on  the  horizon, 
so  that  the  moon  (the  full  moon,  I believe)  rose  without 
the  least  warning  conveyed  in  a diffusion  of  light  or 
halo-like  effect,  perfectly  round  and  sharply  outlined 
like  a gold  circle  on  a blue  ground,  and  glittering  as 
bright  as  a new  gold  dollar.  In  the  same  way  later  the 
night  was  quite  remarkable.  On  ordinary  moonlight 
nights  a whitish  haze  will  blend  with  the  outline  of  the 
mountains  and  make  them  indistinct,  but  Christmas 
night  Mansfield  was  as  sharply  outlined,  almost,  as  on  a 
clear  day. 


LETTERS 


237 


The  woods  have  a most  mysterious,  Hop-o'-my- 
thumb  forest  appearance,  the  trunks  and  limbs  on  the 
outer  edge  heavily  snow-coated,  and  the  interior  of  dim 
and  general  grayness.  The  gable  ends  of  houses  and 
barns  appear  like  haystacks,  and  the  dormer  windows 
and  chimneys  the  most  inconsequent  things  in  nature. 

TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  January  4,  1891. 

Last  night  I received  a note  from  C.,  stating  that  he 
had  found  a pleasant  country  home  for  Samo.  I am 
both  glad  and  sorry.  I shall  miss  him  exceedingly.  He 
is,  to  my  mind,  the  most  interesting  dog  of  our  collec- 
tion and  admirably  suited  to  this  place.  I mean  that  his 
nature  is  in  accord  with  the  spirit  of  the  place,  which  is 
one  that  combines  a certain  wild  charm  with  interests  of 
a domestic  sort.  Samo  is  gentle,  obedient,  and  is,  “as 
one  should  say,  one  that  takes  upon  him  to  be  a dog  in- 
deed," but  nevertheless,  he  has  an  interest  apart  from 
the  common  interests  attaching  to  dogs;  he  has  some- 
thing, though  in  a slight  degree,  of  the  virtue  of  a wild 
animal. 

January  5. 

But  now  I must  tell  you  about  our  trip  to  the  moun- 
tains. Saturday  morning  was  clear,  with  a very  faint 
northeast  wind ; the  thermometer  was  at  about  zero.  As 
we  expected  to  find  the  road  somewhat  difficult,  Mr. 
Cobb  borrowed  a light  sledge,  and  this  he  filled  with 
straw,  a canvas  covering  and  buffalo  robes  on  top  of  all. 
They  put  us  up  a lunch  basket,  and  we  carried  some 


238 


STOWE  NOTES 


steaks  and  potatoes  to  be  cooked  at  the  camp.  H.  and  I 
put  on  'most  everything  we  could  find  in  the  way  of 
wraps,  and  what  we  could  not  wear  we  carried.  We 
presented  a decidedly  Tweedledum-and-Tweedledee-like 
appearance.  We  got  off  at  about  half  past  eleven. 

The  road  southeast  of  us,  by  Wilkins'  farm  (the 
grassy  road),  was  entirely  blocked  by  drifts,  so  we  took 
a winding  course  through  the  pastures  to  the  Hollow. 
After  passing  the  mill  we  met  a couple  of  lumber  teams 
just  below  Warren's  farm,  that  last  clearing  that  we  see 
from  the  valley,  and  it  was  not  until  we  passed  this  al- 
most drift-hidden  house  that  we  struck  into  the  woods. 
They  are  nowhere  very  dense  on  these  Worcester  moun- 
tains, but  we  met  with  some  fine  maples  and  yellow 
birches,  until  we  reached  an  altitude  above  the  range  of 
the  former,  where  the  evergreens  became  more  numer- 
ous, spruces  mostly,  and  slender  tapering  firs.  And  in 
the  openings  we  saw  ahead  of  us  the  glistening  ridge  of 
the  mountain,  heavily  frosted  by  clouds  condensing  and 
freezing  over  night.  You  can  imagine  the  delightful 
nature  of  the  drive  through  this  winter  forest,  where 
abandoned  lumber  roads  wound  with  smooth  unbroken 
surfaces  and  prolonged  the  glimpses  from  our  road, 
which  occasionally  dipped  to  the  crossing  of  small 
ravines  on  corduroy  bridges.  At  about  half  past  one  we 
reached  the  camp.  The  house  where  the  lumbermen 
sleep  and  have  their  meals  is  not  particularly  interesting, 
but  I found  the  log  barn  decidedly  picturesque. 

The  house  is  kept  by  “Charlie  Burt's  nigger"  and  his 
wife,  a white  woman.  It's  neat  and  cleanly,  but  a some- 
what primitive  abode,  consisting  of  a single  room  which 


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LETTERS 


239 


is  at  once  kitchen,  sitting-room,  dining-hall,  and  sleep- 
ing-apartment. A storeroom  and  woodshed  open  out  of 
it,  and  there’s  a loft  overhead  where  the  lumbermen 
sleep.  Mr.  Cobb  set  to  work  at  once  to  cook  our  dinner, 
and  meantime  H.  and  I strolled  about  outside.  There 
was  no  wind,  and  you  can  hardly  conceive  of  the  extreme 
quiet.  Presently  in  the  distance  the  shouting  of  team- 
sters and  the  crack  of  whips  would  be  heard,  then  the 
jingle  of  harness,  the  creaking  of  the  heavily  loaded 
sledges,  and  the  sound  of  the  runners  in  the  snow,  and 
for  a short  space  the  camp  would  present  an  animated 
scene,  in  the  loading  of  sledges  with  lumber  for  the  mill 
or  the  unloading  of  logs  brought  down  from  the  moun- 
tain. The  men  were  exceedingly  interesting  to  look  at, 
in  particular  a Frenchman  of  a Mephistophelian  cast,  of 
whom  I have  made  a little  sketch. 

. Dinner  was  ready  for  us  in  the  course  of  half  an 
hour  or  so,  and  was  a very  admirable  one  and  highly  ap- 
preciated. 

Immediately  after,  we  harnessed  the  horses  and 
drove  up  into  the  woods,  where  the  wood-cutters  were  at 
work.  We  went  up  the  mountain  in  a northeasterly  di- 
rection for  about  two  miles,  through  a region  that  was 
like  Fairyland,  where  the  evergreens  were  so  densely 
coated  with  frost  that  hardly  any  suggestion  of  green 
remained  to  them.  I don’t  mean  that  the  boughs  were 
snow-laden  or  iced  over,  as  you  sometimes  see  them,  but 
the  entire  surface  of  the  tree,  boughs,  twigs,  and  needles, 
was  covered  with  minute  feathery  crystals  that  sparkled 
like  silver.  In  the  same  way,  the  birches  seemed  to  bear 
a delicate  wintry  foliage— the  lower  parts  of  these  trees 


240 


STOWE  NOTES 


in  a cold  shadow,  the  tops  in  the  golden  afternoon  light. 
At  a little  distance  the  firs  and  spruces  seemed  to  be  glit- 
tering pinnacles  of  ice.  We  had  some  little  difficulty  in 
reaching  the  actual  scene  of  the  wood-cutting,  as  the 
road  had  only  the  day  before  been  broken  out  by  a yoke 
of  oxen,  and  in  the  end  we  were  compelled  to  turn,  by 
uncoupling  the  sledge  and  lifting  it  around,  assisted  in 
this  by  the  lumbermen,  as  the  snow  was  too  deep  for  the 
horses  to  leave  the  road,  and  the  track  too  narrow  and 
barred  by  a lately  fallen  tree. 

The  choppers  were  about  quitting  work,  so  we  offered 
them  a lift  back.  They  were  very  interesting — young  fel- 
lows of  about  eighteen  to  twenty-five,  the  very  picture 
of  health  and  robustiousness.  Some  of  them  sat  on  the 
end  of  the  sled,  from  time  to  time  answering  our  ques- 
tions, but  mostly  conversing  together  in  low  tones; 
others  followed  on  foot,  their  axes  slung  over  their 
shoulders.  In  front  of  us  a yoke  of  small  Jersey  cattle 
dragged  a large  log  of  canoe  birch  (for  fire-wood),  and 
occasionally  created  a diversion  by  endeavoring  to  crowd 
each  other  out  of  the  road.  Their  driver  walked  with 
them.  In  this  order  we  wound  slowly  down  in  the 
shadow,  for  the  sun  had  by  this  time  set  and  left  a deep 
red  glow  behind  the  ragged  spruce  tops. 

Passing  places  where  a tree  had  been  felled  and  the 
severed  boughs  trampled,  the  smell  of  the  crushed  leaves 
was  very  strong  and  fragrant. 

On  returning  we  did  not  stop,  but  continued  directly 
down  the  mountain.  The  last  glimpse  of  the  camp  was 
an  interesting  picture — horses,  oxen,  and  men  grouped 
between  the  log  barn  and  the  little  shanty;  the  bright 


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LETTERS 


241 


colors  of  flannel  shirts  and  toques  conspicuous  on  the 
snow;  the  light  gleaming  on  the  axe-heads;  the  move- 
ment, bustle,  and  color  against  the  background  of  the 
cold  and  darkening  wood. 

The  stars  were  out  before  we  reached  the  valley,  but 
with  the  wind  at  our  backs  the  air  seemed  like  that  of  a 
balmy  summer  night.  On  our  way  through  the  Hollow 
and  homeward  we  were  boarded  from  time  to  time  by 
lantern-bearing  strangers,  with  whom  we  exchanged  a 
civil  greeting  or  remark  on  the  weather.  When  we 
reached  home,  we  were  surprised  to  find  that  the  tem- 
perature had  risen  slightly  a few  degrees,  for  when  we 
turned  northward  and  faced  the  wind,  we  imagined 
some  phenomenal  fall,  so  icy  was  it. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  January  8,  1891. 

Let  me  tell  you  here  about  the  chestnut  devil,  as  you 
term  him.  He  will  be  seven  years  old  next  spring;  he 
stands  fifteen  and  three  quarters  hands  high;  he  is,  so 
far  as  Mr.  Cobb  and  I know,  perfectly  sound;  and  al- 
though lately  he  has  displayed  considerable  vivacity,  he 
is,  I believe,  of  a gentle  disposition.  In  color  he  is  a dark 
chestnut,  fading  to  a gold  color  around  the  pasterns, 
black  hoofs,  and  with  no  white  hairs  anywhere  except 
a somewhat  indistinct  star  in  his  forehead.  His  legs  are 
very  clean,  and  he  has  on  most  occasions  a fine  spirited 
air.  He  is  rather  long-bodied,  but  not  ungracefully  so. 
As  you  know,  he  is  not  much  of  a trotter,  but  Mr.  Cobb 
calls  him  a good  roadster,  a stalwart  animal  that  can  take 


242 


STOWE  NOTES 


a carriage  along  at  a reasonable  pace  for  long  distances 
without  tiring.  In  motion  he  keeps  his  back  steady,  his 
legs  moving  rather  rapidly,  his  neck  arched,  displaying  a 
good  crest,  and  his  head  tossing  up  and  down,  while  his 
ears,  like  a good  roadster’s,  are  continually  in  motion. 
He  carries  his  tail  well  also,  it  seems  to  me,  not  arched, 
but  straight,  somewhat  flagged.  He  was  an  excellent 
fast  walker  when  I got  him,  and  I fancy  he  is  so  still. 
One  trick  he  has  that  strikes  me  as  rather  interesting 
than  otherwise,  a way  of  wrinkling  his  nose  like  the  horse 
in  Albert  Durer’s  “Knight,  Death,  and  the  Devil.” 

He  is  certainly  a very  strong  creature,  and  always 
seems  to  me  to  be  full  of  undeveloped  force.  He  is  dis- 
tinctly young.  He  must  strike  other  people  so  too,  as  I 
have  sometimes  heard  the  men  refer  to  him  as  “the  colt.” 
He  is  apt  to  be  restless  and  uneasy,  for  want  of  some 
means  of  working  off  his  superfluous  energy,  I suppose. 
He  was  broken  to  driving  very  late,  viewed  according  to 
the  custom  here,  but  he  seems  to  have  been  tractable 
from  the  start.  It  may  be  a fantastical  notion,  but  he 
seems  to  me,  somehow,  to  have  made  a temporary  sur- 
render, and  never  to  have  fought  out  very  thoroughly 
with  man  the  question  of  supremacy.  Yet,  as  I say,  I 
think  him  a well-dispositioned  animal. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  January  20,  1891. 

Yesterday  Mr.  Cobb  and  I hitched  up  Polly  and  the 
colt  in  a light  sleigh  and  drove  to  Moss  Glen  Falls.  I 


LETTERS 


243 


was  really  appalled  at  the  mountains  of  logs  of  spruce 
and  hemlock  heaped  up  around  the  Moss  Glen  saw- 
mill. The  destruction  of  the  forest  here  is  something 
to  make  your  hair  rise  on  your  head  with  horror.  I 
really  have  my  doubts  if  enough  will  remain  to  admit  of 
our  repeating  our  trip  to  the  logging  camp.  This  is  the 
exaggeration  of  strong  feeling,  but,  without  doubt,  the 
woods  are  being  rapidly  destroyed. 

Yesterday  was  the  most  charming  day  we  have  had 
this  winter,  and  just  before  sunset  I drove  up  to  the 
house,  taking  my  snow-shoes  in  the  sleigh  with  me.  I 
hitched  the  horse  there,  and  went  down  into  the  swamp 
and  along  the  wood  road,  which  was  crossed  and  re- 
crossed by  the  tracks  of  hares,  squirrels,  and  mice.  It’s 
a great  satisfaction  to  walk  among  your  own  trees,  with 
the  consciousness  that  they  at  least  are  secure,  no  longer 
in  continual  danger  of  the  axe. 

The  day  before  yesterday  I went  through  the  Elmore 
woods.  It  was  in  the  afternoon ; the  sun  was  rather  low, 
and  behind  the  clouds.  I never  saw  a more  completely 
wintry  scene.  The  track  was  hollowed  deep  into  the 
snow,  which  rose  abruptly  on  each  side  to  a level  with 
the  floor  of  the  sleigh ; it  would  have  been  a very  difficult, 
almost  an  impossible  matter  to  turn  around,  or  even  to 
pass  another  sleigh.  This  is  (or  was,  before  to-day's 
thaw)  about  the  depth  of  the  snow  on  an  average,  for  in 
a dense  wood  like  Elmore  it  could  not  have  drifted.  Of 
course,  on  the  main  roads  the  rollers  have  kept  a pretty 
even  surface,  but  on  the  less  frequented  mountain  roads 
you  travel  in  these  little  gullies. 

It  was  as  beautiful  as  it  is  in  summer,  but  quite  a 


244 


STOWE  NOTES 


different  place.  It  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  a 
Russian  forest,  the  evergreens,  of  which  I did  not  know 
there  were  so  many  in  this  wood,  all  with  their  boughs 
drooping  under  a heavy  weight  of  snow,  twigs  and 
branches  so  thickly  coated  that  the  forest  seemed  very 
dense  and  impenetrable.  You  know  how  the  road  winds 
down  for  a quarter  of  a mile  or  so  after  you  are  fairly  in 
the  wood.  There  was  no  effect  of  light  and  shade,  the 
sun  having  gone  behind  a belt  of  clouds;  only  in  the 
northeast  there  was  a little  gleam  of  greenish  sky.  There 
was  no  wind,  and  the  most  intense  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  creak  of  the  runners  and  the  very  faint  jingle  of 
the  sleigh-bells,  for  I went  through  very  slowly. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  January  26, 1891. 

To-day  is  charming,  very  pleasant,  brilliant  sunshine, 
but  yesterday  was  intensely  cold,  several  degrees  below, 
and  an  intolerable  searching  west  wind.  I went  down  to 
the  village  to  do  some  errands,  and  coming  home,  over 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  the  snow  was  drifting  heavily,  blow- 
ing in  a cloud.  I don’t  remember  ever  being  so  much  im- 
pressed with  the  terrible  nature  of  winter;  it  seemed  as 
if  nothing  could  live  for  more  than  a few  hours  in  such 
an  atmosphere.  At  five  o’clock  it  was  8°  below,  but  later, 
when  I looked  out  at  about  nine  o’clock,  it  had  risen 
two  degrees.  However,  it  was  comfortable  enough  in- 
doors. 

Yesterday  I stopped  to  ask  about  the  temperature  in 


LETTERS 


245 


the  village.  It  was  30°  below  at  six  this  morning,  colder 
than  it  has  been  for  several  years.  It  was  30  below  while 
I was  in  the  village,  and  70  when  I reached  the  house  at 
about  sunset. 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  January  31,  1891. 

How  intensely  you  would  have  enjoyed  the  coloring 
of  the  clear  cold  days  we  had  in  December.  You  can 
imagine  what  a delicate  pink  the  distance,  snow-covered, 
might  have  been;  and  the  irregularities  of  the  surface, 
reflecting  the  light  in  various  colors,  made  it  much  more 
complex  than  the  distance  of  summer-time. 


to  his  mother 

Stowe,  February  14,  1891. 

Last  night  a wonderful  effect— exceedingly  cold 
( — io°),  clear  moonlight,  and  in  the  north-northwest  a 
rose-red  aurora  borealis.  It  streamed  up  behind  the 
Mountain  a soft  rose-color,  and  also  the  same  effect 
(though  not  so  brilliant)  a little  east  of  north ; due  north 
it  was  the  usual  cold  blue  light.  It  did  not  last  very 
long. 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  October  20,  1891. 

Fve  been  intending  to  write  you  for  some  time  past, 
but,  as  they  say  here,  Fve  not  “got  round  to  it” — which 


246 


STOWE  NOTES 


is  the  same  thing,  I suppose,  as  not  having  gone  squarely 
about  it.  Forgive  this  confession  of  a difficulty;  but  the 
world,  such  as  it  is  represented  in  these  parts,  is  too 
much  with  me. 


TO  HENRY  HOLT 

Stowe,  December  9,  1891. 

Two  very  high  winds  have  swept  over  the  country 
from  the  south,  levelling  fences,  unroofing  barns,  and 
causing  our  house  to  jar  and  tremble,  and,  what  is  really 
cause  for  regretful  remark,  taking  down  some  very  fine 
old  hemlocks. 

I really  believe  you  would  enjoy  Stowe  now,  even 
more  than  you  did  earlier  in  the  season ; these  open  win- 
ters are,  to  my  mind,  beautiful  beyond  what  any  other 
season  has  to  offer.  The  woods,  though  leafless,  are 
now  at  their  best. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  January  20,  1892. 

I drove  over  to  Moscow  in  the  afternoon,  and  coming 
home,  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  the  little  snow-crystals  cut 
so  sharply  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep  one’s  eyes  open, 
only  just  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  see  the  road  and  avoid 
running  into  anybody ; and  when  I arrived  at  the  village, 
my  eyelashes  were  frozen  together  so  tightly  that  I had 
to  thaw  the  ice  off  with  my  fingers  before  I could  open 
my  eyes.  Polly,  who  was  going  pretty  well,  and  rather 


LETTERS 


247 


warm,  was  frost-covered  to  the  extent  of  appearing  al- 
most as  much  of  a white  as  a bay  horse. 

The  thermometer  at  the  stable  this  morning  was  only 
340,  which  is  a very  reasonable  temperature,  I think, 
though  of  course  one  would  prefer  it  should  not  go  lower 
than  40°  or  50°. 


January  27. 

We  skidded  two  or  three  lengths  of  ash  out  of  the 
swamp  the  other  day.  It  was  quite  fun— the  tree  (our 
own  tree)  sawed  up  by  our  own  man  with  our  own  saws, 
the  log  drawn  out  by  our  own  horse  in  our  own  harness, 
and  finally  carried  down  to  the  mill  on  our  own  sled. 
This,  after  borrowing  harnesses,  hiring  horses  and 
sledges,  was  quite  refreshing.  The  ash  worked  up  into 
very  nice-looking  timber. 

The  wind  has  drifted  the  snow  a good  deal,  and  the 
sharp  edges  of  the  drifts,  heaved  up  here  and  there  across 
the  meadow,  make  a very  wintry  aspect.  About  zero  all 
day,  but  clear.  Wind  now  to  the  south— looks  like  a 
thaw. 


TO  HENRY  HOLT 

Stowe,  February  8,  1892. 

I believe  there  is  a prospect  of  much  reward  in  a cer- 
tain class  of  investment  in  Stowe,  Vermont.  This  is 
rather  an  abrupt  way  to  spring  this  conviction  upon  you, 
but  I have  been  thinking  the  matter  over  of  late,  and  as  I 
know  you  to  be  interested  in  the  place,  and  one  amused 
by  suggestions  of  the  kind,  I have  even  determined  dis- 


248 


STOWE  NOTES 


covering  to  you  my  ideas  on  the  subject.  If  it  is  going  to 
bore  you,  read  no  further,  for  investment  is  my  theme 
quite  to  the  end.  I shall  bear  you  no  malice  if  you  de- 
cline the  remainder,  which  follows  as  the  development 
of  an  idea  more  in  sport  than  for  profit. 

I don't  mean  investing  money  in  a hotel  or  inn,  or 
cottages  to  be  let,  which  might  be  profitable  conducted 
with  unusual  skill  and  energy,  nor  in  farming  on  a large 
scale,  which  would  be  profitable  to  any  one  with  a head 
for  business  and  a natural  bent  that  way;  but  what  I 
mean  is  simply  an  investment  that  any  rich  man  might 
make,  and  which  would  in  time  afford  a good  profit  with- 
out requiring  peculiar  gifts  or  much  expense  of  energy— 
an  investment,  moreover,  not  involving  a vast  amount  of 
money  in  purchase,  very  little  in  current  expense,  paying 
back  something  at  once,  increasing  that  payment  yearly 
until  within  ten  or  fifteen  years  the  profit  becomes  very 
large,  and,  fourthly  and  lastly,  retaining  its  value  undi- 
minished forever,  and,  to  conclude,  conferring  a priceless 
boon  upon  the  children  of  earth.  In  a word,  the  investor 
profits  both  body  and  soul,  puts  money  in  his  purse,  and 
performs  at  the  same  time  an  act  of  truest  philanthropy. 

All  this  may  be  done  by  building  a sawmill  and  by 
putting  a few  thousand  dollars  into  the  more  remote  dis- 
tricts of  spruce  forests  that  cover  these  mountains — 
parts  as  yet  comparatively  inaccessible  and  untouched. 

In  order  to  explain  the  peculiar  advantages  of  such 
an  investment,  let  me  in  the  first  place  make  some  re- 
marks respecting  the  lumber  trade.  For  many  years 
previous  to  this  (when  it  is  peculiarly  the  case)  the  lum- 
ber market  throughout  the  country  has  been  overstocked, 


LETTERS 


249 


and  prices  consequently  have  been  low ; yet,  nevertheless, 
it  is  agreed  in  this  part  of  Vermont  that  the  lumber  busi- 
ness pays  better  than  any  other.  Though  farming  may 
now  be  said  to  be  at  its  best,  for  the  country  is  neither 
too  new  nor  too  old,  is  well  cleared  and  drained,  and  still 
retains  sufficient  forest  to  economize  the  moisture,  yet 
the  lumber  business,  choked  with  competition,  pays  bet- 
ter. Nor  does  this  excess  of  supply  cause  any  abatement 
in  the  cutting  of  the  forests,  which  is  done  at  about  the 
same  or  at  an  increased  rate  yearly,  the  reason  being 
either  that  each  lumberman  counts  on  the  discourage- 
ment of  his  competitors  or  else  that  all  make  sufficient 
profit. 

Indeed,  I understand  that  they  make  about  one  dollar 
on  every  thousand  square  feet,  and  as  the  mills  get  out 
from  two  to  three  millions  of  square  feet  yearly,  the 
profit  is  not  despicable.  Besides,  it  is  to  be  considered 
that  the  lumberman’s  methods  are  not  economical.  He 
either  buys  the  land  he  cuts  upon,  or  buys  the  right  to 
cut  trees  on  other  people’s  lands;  he  cuts  very  close,  so 
much  so  that  he  cannot  again  within  twenty  years,  per- 
haps ever,  go  over  the  same  land,  even  if  he  owns  it,  and 
the  cost  of  his  road-building,  etc.,  is  consequently  thrown 
away. 

Thus  it  may  be  seen  from  the  lumberman’s  methods 
that  the  state  of  the  market  in  no  wise  tends  to  preserve 
the  forests,  and  in  this  reckless  slaughter  is  the  profit  of 
the  investor  who  can  afford  to  wait,  for  it  clears  the  way 
to  the  remoter  forests,  both  for  profits  and  for  roads. 

The  proper  way,  of  course,  to  invest  in  forest  land  is 
to  buy  a large  tract,  sufficiently  large  to  be  divided  into, 


250 


STOWE  NOTES 


say,  ten  districts,  one  tenth  of  the  whole  to  be  cut  over 
annually.  In  this  way  your  forest  lasts  forever,  the  orig- 
inal cost  of  your  roads  is  not  lost  (the  repairing  of  them 
with  so  much  at  hand  for  the  purpose  would  amount  to 
nothing) , the  profit,  as  the  country  is  cleared,  yearly  in- 
creases, and  if  under  present  conditions  the  business 
pays,  how  much  more  will  it  within  ten  years  ? 

In  addition,  there  are  in  this  State  peculiar  advan- 
tages in  connection  with  the  lumber  trade.  In  the  first 
place,  the  tree  that  is  principally  cut  on  these  mountains 
is  permanent  for  certain  qualities  and  purposes.  For 
dimension  timber  and  framing  of  houses  and  for  the 
lesser  spars  of  vessels  nothing  is  so  good  as  spruce,  for 
besides  being  as  light  and  as  easily  worked  as  white  pine, 
it  is  more  elastic  and  enduring  and  of  a tougher  con- 
sistency. It  is  unrivalled  as  a framing  timber ; it  can  be 
put  to  almost  all  the  uses  where  white  pine  was  formerly 
exclusively  employed,  and  is  the  best  for  general  pur- 
poses of  the  soft  woods  that  remain  to  us.  I speak  of  the 
spruce  particularly,  although  there  are  splendid  forests 
of  valuable  hard  wood  in  this  State  which  command  bet- 
ter prices. 

There  is  to  be  considered  the  fact  that  the  forests  of 
Vermont  are  nearer  the  centres  of  demand  south  and 
southeast  than  those  of  any  other  State  (except  perhaps 
New  Hampshire),  and  that  New  England  and  southern 
New  York  are  particularly  well  cleared.  Ask  any 
builder  you  know  where  he  gets  his  lumber,  and  I think 
you  will  find  that  all  of  it  travels  far  before  reaching 
New  York,  but  his  spruce  from  Vermont  and  northern 
New  York  comes  the  shortest  distance;  the  white  pine 


LETTERS 


251 


from  Canada  and  Wisconsin,  the  hard  pine  from  Georgia 
and  Alabama,  the  white  wood  from  western  Pennsyl- 
vania, etc.,  etc. 

But  what  most  contributes  to  the  profit  to  be  made 
here  is  the  length  and  severity  of  the  winter,  which,  in- 
jurious to  all  other  industries,  is  an  aid  to  this,  by  making 
it  possible  for  a term  of  four  months  to  penetrate  the 
forests  and  transport  the  lumber  with  comparative  ease, 
and  at  probably  one  third  of  the  cost  expended  in  regions 
of  little  or  no  snow.  This  remains  an  advantage  over 
every  lumber  district  further  south.  Also,  the  long  in- 
terruption to  farming  throws  a large  class  of  laborers 
into  this  business,  at  ordinary  wages  and  during  a time 
when  their  services  are  most  needed— that  is  to  say, 
from  September  until  Christmas  or  the  first  of  January, 
the  season  of  tree-cutting,  or  even  for  a longer  period, 
if  the  snow  does  not  become  too  deep  to  interfere  with 
the  work. 

Again,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  laws  of  this 
State  are  peculiarly  favorable  to  holders  of  real  estate, 
and  will  probably  continue  so,  while  the  cities  remain 
unimportant,  as  they  are  likely  to  do. 

As  regards  the  prices  of  forest  land,  I understand 
that  districts  more  or  less  remote  have  been  sold  within 
a few  years  at  $2.50  the  acre,  a thousand  acres  for 
$2,500. 

Respecting  the  cost  of  sawmills,  those  run  by  water- 
power, with  all  necessary  machinery,  water-privilege, 
etc.,  involve  an  outlay  of  about  $5,000;  but  water  is  too 
unreliable  a motor— steam  is  preferable.  But  the  ca- 
pacity of  the  mill  should  be  considered  in  connection  with 


252 


STOWE  NOTES 


the  extent  of  forest  land  that  feeds  it.  The  largest  mills 
here,  with  every  kind  of  machine  for  preparing  boards, 
dimension  timber,  shingles,  clapboards,  etc.,  cost  in  the 
neighborhood  of  $20,000,  and  are  capable  of  producing 

20.000  square  feet  of  lumber  per  day.  But  suppose  the 
extent  of  forest  land  annually  cut  to  be  one  hundred 
acres,  one  tenth  of  the  whole  thousand : a steam  mill  with 
all  necessary  machinery,  and  capable  of  manufacturing 
in  the  course  of  the  year  all  the  lumber  cut  on  the  given 
amount  of  land,  would  probably  require  a sum  of  from 
eleven  to  thirteen  thousand  dollars. 

Now  to  arrive  at  the  amount  of  lumber  on  a hundred 
acres:  There  are  probably  from  two  to  three  hundred 
spruce  trees,  of  a size  most  suitable  for  lumber  purposes, 
to  an  acre;  but  in  buying  an  extensive  tract  of  forest 
land,  although  at  a certain  elevation  the  spruce  has  its 
natural  range  above  the  deciduous  and  hard-wood  trees 
(the  canoe  birch  excepted),  it  is  nevertheless  not  at  all 
impossible  that  a certain  proportion  of  such  a purchase 
may  bear  them  but  scantily.  Let  us  say,  then,  70  spruce 
to  the  acre,  in  each  tree  (a  moderate  estimate)  400 
square  feet  of  lumber — that  is  to  say,  28,000  square 
feet  to  the  acre;  a hundred  acres  make  the  amount 

2.800.000  square  feet,  on  which  the  profit  is  about 
$2,800. 

Thus  it  is  seen  that  the  outlay  on  land  and  mill  may 
be  set  at  or  within  $15,000,  and  the  profit,  at  the  present 
reduced  rate,  pays  for  the  undertaking  in  about  six 
years. 

This  profit  of  one  dollar  on  a thousand  square  feet 
refers,  I understand,  to  all  grades,  and,  in  this  view, 


LETTERS 


253 


would  be  too  low  an  estimate  in  connection  with  the 
scheme  I am  expounding,  for  the  proportion  of  first 
grade  lumber  from  forests  treated  as  I have  suggested 
would  be  larger  than  the  mills  here  ordinarily  ship,  and 
the  profit  is  proportionately  greater  on  the  higher 
grades. 

These  calculations  are  based,  you  see,  on  existing 
conditions ; there  is  every  prospect  to  expect  a very  great 
increase,  perhaps  the  doubling  of  the  profits  within  ten 
years. 

It  is  worth  while  to  add  also  that  the  taxes  on  land 
valued  at  $2.50  an  acre  cannot  amount  to  very  much. 

What  do  you  think  of  this?  Is  it  not  worth  the  at- 
tention of  the  rich  and  perfect  philanthropist,  the  man 
who  would  do  good  to  himself  and  others  ? 

P.  S.  I have  forgotten  to  say  that  the  expense  of 
running  a steam  mill  is  very  little  more  than  that  in- 
volved in  working  by  water-power— just  as  much  as 
the  wages  of,  say,  two  men,  engineers,  amount  to — for 
the  waste  lumber,  edgings,  sawdust,  etc.,  provide  ample 
fuel. 

P.  P.  S.  I am  afraid,  being  so  much  occupied  in 
explaining  pecuniary  advantages,  I have  somewhat 
slighted  the  side  philanthropic,  but  that  is  of  course  ob- 
vious. By  cutting  the  forests  as  I propose,  all  necessary 
timber  is  supplied  to  the  wants  of  civilization,  and,  far 
from  being  destroyed  or  injured,  the  forest  remains  a 
thing  of  beauty  and  a joy  forever,  and  an  inestimable 
blessing  to  the  farmer. 


254 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  March  13,  1892. 

To-day  is  one  of  those  cold  clear  March  days  intoler- 
ably windy  and  bleak  in  cities,  but  here  you  can  always 
find  a warm  and  cosy  corner  out  of  doors.  Yesterday  I 
was  in  the  swamp  looking  for  birds,  and  although  there 
was  a bitter  southwest  wind  blowing,  in  that  sheltered 
place  the  air  was  as  warm  and  pleasant  as  April.  Indeed, 
for  the  last  two  days  we  have  felt  the  benefit  of  the  wood 
very  much,  for  whereas  it  has  been  extremely  cold  and 
disagreeable  in  the  village,  or  anywhere  where  the  south- 
west wind  strikes,  we  have  felt  little  discomfort,  and 
only  realized  how  bleak  the  weather  was  by  driving  out 
to  the  village,  etc. 

Last  night  was  full  moon,  I think.  I tried  the  bob  on 
the  crust  over  the  mowing ; it  did  not  go  very  well,  as  the 
drifts  interfered.  But  I never  saw  a more  beautiful 
night.  It  was  almost  as  light  as  day.  The  whole  sur- 
face of  the  slope,  where  the  lighter  snow  clung  in  long 
wavy  lines  to  the  crust,  had  the  ribbed  look  of  sea 
sand — little  drifts  with  a sharp  edge,  the  other  side 
swept  off  by  the  wind,  in  the  same  manner  as  undertow 
deals  with  light  sand. 

The  days  are  getting  long  again,  and  the  sunset  be- 
gins to  creep  up  a little  to  the  north  beyond  the  edge  of 
the  woods. 

Yesterday  I think  I saw  the  first  of  the  warblers,  the 
myrtle  warbler,  but  I am  not  sure.  However,  the  birds 
in  the  swamp  were  not  strictly  winter  birds,  but  such  as 


* 


LETTERS  255 

indicate  a little  change  in  the  season,  notably  the  brown 
creeper. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  March  19,  1892. 

Now  is  the  time  when  I begin  to  listen  for  notes  of 
song  sparrows  or  bluebirds,  and  make  all  my  out-of- 
door  excursions  armed  with  a field-glass  to  catch  the 
first  glimpse  of  them.  Perhaps  you  can  understand  how 
the  appearance  and  voice  of  the  earliest  migratory  birds 
affect  me;  they  “make  my  blood  cold  and  my  hair  to 
stare” — as  you  say  Beethoven’s  music  does  with  you. 

C.  sent  me  by  mail  yesterday  two  stories,  both  amus- 
ing, but  one  was  by  Miss  Wilkins.  It  is  not  enough  to 
say  “truthful” ; every  word  was  precious,  the  pure  gold 
of  truth. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  March  24,  1892. 

I have  been  inquiring  about  dog  licenses,  and  thus 
stands  the  law  in  Vermont:  before  April  1st  male  dogs 
taxed  one  dollar,  after  April  1st  until  May,  the  third 
week  (I  believe),  two  dollars,  after  the  third  week  in 
May  they  are  condemned — in  other  words,  they  throw 
them  into  the  brier-patch.  Tojo  is  very  much  afraid,  as 
he  tells  me,  “dat  Mr.  Man  ketch  him  by  de  behime  leg 
and  fling  ’im  blip!  in  de  middle  of  de  brier-patch— an’ 
’tain’t  all  de  creeturs,”  Tojo  adds,  “dat  kin  crawl  out 
onter  a chinkapin  log  and  koam  de  pitch  outer  der  har.” 


STOWE  NOTES 


256 

He  ’lows  he  dunner  w’at  minnit  gwineter  be  de  nex’ — 
consequently  I must  have  a little  light  on  the  subject. 

March  31. 

To  jo’s  mind  is  at  rest.  If  any  one  should  even  sug- 
gest the  brier-patch,  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  and  pull  out  a little  card,  “A  little  yellowish- 
gray  Skye  terrier  six  years  old.”  Nobody  allowed  to 
fling  him  in  de  brier-patch! 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  March  27,  1892. 

I have  asked  you  before  about  Theophile  Gautier, 
but  I want  to  know  a little  more  about  him.  What  has 
he  written  besides  “Captain  Fracasse”  and  (what  I am 
now  reading)  “A  Winter  in  Russia”?  He  is  certainly 
a very  acute  and  delicate  though  not  very  subtle  ob- 
server, and  presents  a picture  in  a vivid  and  interesting 
way,  an  out-of-door  picture  especially;  when  he  deals 
with  personalities  I am  not  so  much  amused.  “Captain 
Fracasse”  took  me  back  to  pantomime  days:  I saw  the 
most  startling  and  vivid  pictures,  real  in  that  sense  but 
in  no  way  connected  with  real  life,  and  saw  them  with 
the  clearness  and  force  with  which  the  fresh  eye  of  eight 
years  or  so  takes  impressions.  It  is  much  the  same  with 
this  book. 

Have  you  seen  Thayer  lately?  When  you  do,  ask 
him  if  the  color  in  a landscape  varies  in  proportion  to  the 
amount  of  light.  Is  there  more  color  on  a sunshiny  day 


LETTERS 


257 


than  a cloudy  one  ? Or  is  it  a change  of  values  only  ? If 
I did  not  suspect  myself  of  opinions  at  variance  with 
scientific  facts,  I should  be  tempted  to  believe  there  was 
more  color  in  a winter  than  a summer  landscape;  the 
yellows  and  reds  certainly  seem  to  hold  out  longer,  and 
the  blue  of  distance  to  retire  much  beyond  summer 
limits.  Is  this  due  to  a clearer  atmosphere?  The  moun- 
tains (blue  in  summer)  are  now  (snow-covered)  of  a 
kind  of  golden  pink  and  lilac. 

I continually  think  of  you  in  noting  these  delicate 
colors  and  the  extreme  sharpness  of  all  outlines  of 
things  near  at  hand — the  tufty  edge  of  a mowing  or 
pasture  now  as  sharp  as  a knife-blade  against  the  dis- 
tance. It’s  the  kind  of  thing  I think  you  would  like  to 
paint. 

I want  very  much  to  send  something  to  the  American 
Artists,  and  I shall  do  so,  if  I do  not  fall  between  the 
devils  of  Procrastination  and  Delay  which  beset  me.  Be- 
sides that,  I am  under  the  dominion  of  the  demon  that 
presides  over  Jacks  of  All  Trades — a fate  perfectly  un- 
deserved, as  I am  one  simply  by  circumstances,  neither 
inclination  nor  an  ability  to  play  any  part  moving  me 
thereto.  Behold  my  unhappy  dilemma ! 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  April  8,  1892. 

I would  like  to  know  what  date  is  the  very  latest  for 
sending  in  pictures  to  the  American  Artists  jury,  because 
the  weather  is  now,  I think,  very  unfavorable  for  me  to 


258 


STOWE  NOTES 


make  those  alterations  in  my  picture.  Unlike  most  sea- 
sons at  this  time,  it  is  not  the  warm  hazy  April  weather 
(which  I tried  to  represent),  but  is  clear,  cold,  and 
windy,  with  bright  bursts  of  sunshine  and  long  intervals 
of  shadow — the  most  perplexing  weather  for  painting. 

The  suggestion  you  made  regarding  my  picture  I 
find  valuable,  and  truth  requires  me  to  make  the  altera- 
tion in  it,  even  if  I miss  the  jury  and  the  exhibition. 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  August  4,  1892. 

I should  have  been  very  glad  to  go  to  Windsor  with 
R.,  but  the  day  is  hot,  and  the  Capulets  are  abroad, 
and  my  picture  I must  finish  before  September  yellows 
prevail.  Finished  it  must  be  in  this  month  or  left  over 
until  next  year— a very  depressing  alternative.  I am 
painting  a real  American  artist  picture— an  elm  tree,  a 
sunset.  I am  happy  that  R.  liked  it ; but  it  is  a very  unin- 
spired spirit  that  presides  over  its  execution. 


TO  MRS.  JOHN  W.  ELLIOT 

Stowe,  November  30,  1892. 

Winter,  as  you  guess,  is  indeed  here;  the  tempera- 
ture says  so,  though  not  too  severely,  and  it  is  so  in  aspect. 
We  have  had  only  a slight  fall  of  snow,  but  the  steady 
cold  makes  much  of  it;  the  country,  all  but  the  valley 
itself,  lies  white,  and  the  freezing  of  clouds  makes  the 
mountain  tops  very  wintry. 


LETTERS 


259 


That  call  of  nuthatches  is  to  be  heard  in  the  woods 
now  of  sunny  days,  also  tapping  of  woodpeckers  (hairy) 
and  sometimes  the  sounding  blows  of  a logcock — black- 
cocks, as  they  call  them  here ; and  chickadees,  you  know, 
we  have  always  with  us. 

Yesterday  I saw  a small  flock  of  pine  grosbeaks,  dark 
slaty  in  color,  with  overlying  ruddy  or  salmon  tint.  They 
flit  restlessly,  and  are  shy  for  unsophisticated  birds.  On 
taking  flight,  when  fairly  launched  they  give  a succes- 
sion of  wild  and  plaintive  notes,  which  sometimes  con- 
tinue, growing  faint,  after  they  have  quite  disappeared. 

On  Sunday  our  hired  man  shot  a coon— rather  a fine 
skin.  The  coon  was  found  asleep  in  a kind  of  nest  he 
had  made  in  the  foot  of  a hollow  tree.  He  lacked  one 
fore  foot,  which  he  had  probably  gnawed  off  to  free 
himself  from  a trap,  and  so,  being  unable  to  climb  his 
tree,  was  an  easy  prey.  Such  is  the  lot  of  the  disinherited 
wild  creatures ! 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  December  10,  1892. 

Professor , it  seems,  is  sufficiently  small  of  soul 

to  comment  on  a hole  he  detects  in  the  foliage  of  my 
hemlock  tree.  How  does  he  know  that  I didn’t  do  it  on 
purpose?  or  that  it  is  really  a hole  at  all,  and  not  painted? 
My  former  method  of  mending  it  was  to  stop  it  up  with 
paint — I don’t  know  of  any  other,  do  you? 

Very  mild  winter  here  so  far;  no  sleighing.  But  I 
am  well  pleased,  for  I know  I shall  have  snow  enough, 
enough  winter  and  rough  weather. 


26o 


STOWE  NOTES 


By  the  way,  “rough”  is  in  common  use  here  in  the 
sense  of  cold  or  inclement. 


TO  MRS.  JOHN  W.  ELLIOT 

Stowe,  December  27,  1892. 

A party  of  our  friends  spent  Christmas  with  us,  and 
returned  to  New  York  perfectly  convinced  of  the  se- 
verity of  Vermont  winter.  They  arrived  here  on  the 
coldest  day  I have  ever  felt,  sunless,  with  a strong  south- 
west wind  that  gave  emphasis  to  a recorded  temperature 
of  8°  throughout  the  greater  part  of  the  day. 

It  was  while  these  friends  were  here  that  we  went  on 
an  expedition  which  I should  think  would  interest  you 
very  much.  It  was  to  a logging  camp  on  the  mountains 
east  of  us. 

We  drove  up  in  a rough  traverse  farm-sledge  (for 
the  mountain  roads  are  more  comfortably  and  safely 
travelled  in  such  a conveyance),  and  succeeded  in  pene- 
trating as  far  as  any  trace  of  road  extended,  where  the 
choppers  were  at  work.  To  gain  this  point  we  passed 
through  the  hard-wood  belt,  into  the  region  of  spruces. 

The  clouds  had  frozen  on  the  trees  at  this  height, 
and  the  effect  was  indescribably  beautiful  and  fantastic. 
In  gorges  or  hollows  of  the  mountains  where  the  sun 
rested  for  only  a few  hours  during  the  day,  and  where 
the  clouds  had  probably  hung  heavily,  it  was  very  much 
that  of  window-pane  frost  foliage  made  real.  The 
boughs  were  not  ice-covered,  but  coated  to  a velvety 
depth  with  innumerable  tiny  crystals,  even  more  remark- 
able on  the  birches  than  the  evergreens,  for  it  gave  the 


LETTERS 


261 


many  branching  boughs  of  the  former  something  of  the 
appearance  of  gigantic  trees  of  coral. 

At  this  height  the  canoe  birches  are  not  uncommon, 
and  reach  a fair  size;  their  trunks,  lead-colored  or  sil- 
very, sometimes  russet-tinted,  are  very  soothing  among 
the  too  frequent  yellow  birches.  We  have  none  in  the 
valleys,  I think. 

The  logging  life  is  picturesque,  and  sometimes  dan- 
gerous. The  axemen  suffer  only  through  carelessness, 
I fancy,  for  the  spruce  is  not  a large  tree  at  best,  and 
the  wood  is  so  tough  and  elastic  that  flying  boughs  or 
rebounding  tops  are  of  rare  occurrence.  The  men  are 
recruited  mostly  from  the  lower  classes  of  French 
Canadians,  and  I was  interested  to  note  certain  charac- 
teristics (eyes  particularly)  pure  Indian. 

The  teamsters’  bane  is  the  liability  of  their  runner 
chains  to  breakage.  These  chains,  wound  around  the 
runner,  serve  as  brake  or  drag  to  the  load,  sometimes  of 
fifteen  to  twenty  logs.  If  this  accident  occurs,  there  is 
but  one  hope  for  the  horses— to  keep  ahead  of  the  load; 
and  the  danger  is  hardly  less  to  the  teamster. 

Up  in  the  spruce  forest  I saw  both  chickadees  and 
pine  grosbeaks. 

Curiously  enough,  notwithstanding  the  severe  win- 
ter, I have  only  once  seen  a flock  of  snowflakes.  I am 
sorry,  for  their  flight  is,  I think,  the  finest  animate  spec- 
tacle that  the  winter  affords.  They  remind  me  of  sea 
birds,  flying  with  such  swiftness  and  power,  passing  over 
with  a plaintive  twitter  or  chatter— a long  ripple  of 
sound. 

It  is  characteristic  of  winter  birds  to  talk  as  they  fly, 


2 62 


STOWE  NOTES 


is  it  not?  Pine  grosbeaks  make  a harsh  outcry,  and  red- 
polls chatter  like  sparrows  when  they  rise,  and  flying 
give  the  same  long-drawn  “te-wee”  with  which  canaries 
usually  prelude  their  song. 

The  only  particularly  interesting  bird  I have  seen  of 
late  is  the  blackcock  (pileated  woodpecker),  glossy  black, 
a broad  white  band  through  the  wing,  and  a high  bril- 
liant vermilion  crest;  his  note  a loud  “flicker.” 

I saw  him  in  the  wood  on  a very  cold  day,  when  the 
trees  were  cracking  in  a manner  most  mysterious  and 
startling,  a sound  varying  in  intensity  from  a pistol  shot 
to  the  pop  of  a toy  air-gun. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Worcester,  February  2,  1893. 

I have  been  thinking  about  your  poems,  and  I believe 
the  principal  fault  is  in  treating  familiarly,  as  if  known, 
a subject  with  which  you  are  not  very  conversant,  viz., 
nature,  in  the  meaning  of  field  and  forest,  wild  life. 

You  have  not  observed  enough  to  distinguish  be- 
tween what  are  common  phenomena  and  what  accidental. 
You  do  not  know  the  subject  sufficiently  well  to  select  the 
really  significant  details.  Of  course  you  have  recorded 
what  you  have  been  impressed  with,  but  through  ig- 
norance of  conditions  that  make  one  thing  observed,  in 
relation  to  time  and  place,  more  significant  than  another, 
you  have  failed  generally  to  record  details  of  a really 
suggestive  sort.  As  for  instance : 


LETTERS 


263 


“The  upland  pasture  . . . 

And  saw  the  slender  grasses  stand 
Distinct  against  the  sunset  sky.” 

Characteristic  of  pasture  is  turf  close-cropped  by  cattle ; 
consequently,  tall  grasses,  being  accidental,  are  poor 
things  to  record  in  connection  with  pasture. 

“The  wood  is  thrilled 
By  the  soft  call  of  a late-nesting  thrush.” 

“Soft”  is  not  the  word  that  suggests  anything  to  me  in 
this  relation. 

Last  line  of  “Before  Harvest”  very  bad;  stars  come 
so  meekly,  so  imperceptibly,  with  so  little  regard  to  each 
other,  are  so  very  individual  and  so  lonely,  that  “ushered” 
is  “a  vile  phrase,  a very  vile  phrase.”  The  right  word 
ought,  I think,  to  have  the  meaning  of  going  before, 
preceding. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  February  26,  1893. 

All  America,  I feel,  should  read  Merwin’s  book.  Do 
you  so  when  I return  it,  for  I see  that  none  of  your 
household  have  already  looked  into  it— uncut  leaves  as 
evidence.  It  treats  the  noble  subject  of  horse-flesh  from 
the  proper  point  of  view,  and  a new  one  in  this  depart- 
ment of  literature:  not  from  the  horse-jockey’s  or  the 
trainer’s  or  the  breeder’s,  or  the  one-equine-family  en- 
thusiast’s, but  from  the  horse-lover’s  point  of  view,  the 
most  valuable  and  most  catholic.  It  is  the  kind  of  book 


264 


STOWE  NOTES 


that  ought  (and  if  it  does  not,  the  reader  is  to  blame)  to 
awaken  a new  interest  in  horses ; in  the  case  of  those  al- 
ready interested  in  the  subject,  it  is  calculated  to  stimu- 
late that  interest  more  than  any  book  of  the  kind  I have 
ever  seen.  It  should  prove  as  good  or  a better  friend  to 
horses  than  “Black  Beauty.” 

I am  predicting  an  early  spring— a little  way  I have, 
in  common  with  most  dwellers  in  hard  winter  climates. 
Certainly  we  have  warm  sunny  weather  now. 

By  the  way,  the  notice  of  Merwin’s  book  in  the 
“Nation”  is  in  the  carping  spirit  usually  displayed  in 
that  department  of  the  paper ; it  cries  out  against  details, 
but  does  not  interest  itself  in  the  spirit. 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  March  4,  1893. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  four-color  painters?  Those 
who  considered  green  (in  addition  to  red,  blue,  and  yel- 
low) as  one  of  the  primary  colors? 

The  psychologists  admit  that  all  magentas  and  pur- 
ples are  combinations  of  red  and  blue.  In  looking  at 
them  they  recognize,  as  a painter  would,  the  two  pri- 
mary colors  and  nothing  more;  whereas  of  green  they 
affirm  that,  while  a bluish  or  yellowish  tendency  is  ob- 
servable, there  is  a sense  of  an  underlying— a primary 
color,  such  as  red  or  blue  conveys,  something  that’s 
neither  blue  nor  yellow,  but  green.  What  do  you  think 
of  this? 

I’ve  been  so  much  puzzled  by  the  colors  at  twilight 


LETTERS 


265 


that  Fm  wondering  if  there's  not  truth  in  it.  Both  twi- 
light and  moonlight,  though  on  the  whole  exhibiting 
almost  solely  purple  and  lilac  tints,  have  certain  greenish 
effects  which,  in  painting,  a little  mixture  of  yellow  fails 
to  reproduce.  This  might  result  from  a predominance 
of  blue,  but  such  a predominance  can  hardly  be  ac- 
counted for  by  distance,  since  red  would  then  naturally 
outlast  yellow,  or  by  nearness,  for  then  blue  is  at  its  least 
power;  but  admit  green  as  a primary  color,  and  the 
difficulty  is  solved.  This  may  be  all  in  my  eyes,  and  I 
greatly  suspect  it  is.  Various  tests  show  my  eyes  to 
disagree  in  a most  pronounced  manner,  being  of  differ- 
ent focus  and  one  evidently  less  capable  of  detecting 
color  than  the  other.  Of  course,  to  admit  a fourth  pri- 
mary color  does  not  create  one  for  painting  purposes— 
we  shall  still  have  to  mix  up  blues  and  yellows ; but  the 
admission,  perhaps,  might  help  one  in  seeing . 

If  you  consider  me  quite,  quite  mad,  do  say  so  with 
frankness. 

Psychologists  also  say  that  brightness  and  whiteness 
are  synonymous.  I combated  this  statement  at  first,  but 
the  more  I think  on’t,  the  more  I believe  they  are  in  the 
right.  What  think  you  of  this  opinion?  Not  to  offend 
the  psychologists,  you  might  reply  with  all  of  Malvolio's 
tact  and  in  his  very  words,  if  you  disagree. 

All  this  is  the  result  of  my  visit  to  Clark  University. 


266 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  March  8,  1893. 

Do  you  know  how  to  dispose  of  paintings  of  great 
American  artists  such  as  . . . ?*  We  have  of  the  works 
of  all  of  these  gentlemen,  and  would  gladly  part  with 
them  for  good  gold.  Do  you  think  it  possible  to  sell 
them? 

I speak  with  little  reverence  of  these  worthies,  who 
are  so  bold  in  error,  painting  distant  mountains  bright 
orange,  and  including  the  glorious  sun  himself  in  the 
range  of  their  values  (as  he  descends  in  the  gathering 
brown,  yes,  actually  brown  twilight),  but  notwithstand- 
ing color,  value,  etc.,  their  sunsets  leave  no  doubt  in  the 
observer’s  mind  as  to  what  they  were  about,  whereas 
those  who  look  at  my  twilight  picture  are  exceedingly 
uneasy  until  its  strange  appearance  is  explained  to  them. 

My  picture  gets  along  slowly,  but  I do  not  despair. 


TO  CHARLES  C.  BURLINGHAM 

Stowe,  March  13,  1893. 

I am  a citizen  of  this  State,  you  know,  so,  to  act  the 
part  of  a good  one,  I go  to  town  meetings  and  vote  as  my 
conscience  dictates.  Party  is  not  considered  at  these 
elections;  personal  spleen  influences  the  voting  slightly, 
but  in  the  main  the  farmer’s  common  sense  (which  is 

* Certain  early  American  artists. 


LETTERS 


267 


vast)  governs,  and  good  men  are  chosen.  This  is  the 
case  with  the  town  offices,  where  a better  feeling  is  mani- 
fested than  concerning  less  intimate  trusts,  such  as 
representatives  to  the  State  legislature. 

Sugar  weather  is  crowding  upon  the  farmers  here  a 
little  too  fast  for  their  satisfaction;  they  have  hardly 
gotten  their  wood  sawed  as  yet.  It  will  be  an  early 
spring,  I think,  without  doubt,  and  there’ll  be  more  sugar 
made  in  March  than  in  April,  which,  popular  tradition 
to  the  contrary,  is  seldom  the  case. 

I suppose  R.  keeps  you  informed  of  his  whereabouts 
and  fortunes.  He  still  keeps  his  interest  in  birds,  I sup- 
pose. Mine  revives  powerfully  every  spring,  and  I am 
compelled  to  let  everything  on  the  farm  go,  and  even  my 
painting,  to  follow  it.  Hermit  thrushes  in  June  are  al- 
most our  commonest  bird  (for  we  live  close  to  the  wood), 
and  veeries,  shy  in  more  civilized  localities,  are  frequent 
here.  There’s  no  sound  that  birds  make  so  wild  and 
thrilling  as  their  song,  I believe.  We  hear  them  the  last 
of  all  at  evening,  and  sometimes  they  will  sing  at  night. 


TO  MRS.  JOHN  W.  ELLIOT 

Stowe,  March  23,  1893. 

I saw  yesterday  two  meadowlarks.  These  birds  seem 
to  take  precedence  of  bluebirds,  even.  It  is  the  first  time 
this  year  that  the  fact  of  spring  has  been  expressed  in  its 
fine  type;  hitherto  the  signs  (winged)  have  been  writ 
large  and  black. 


268 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  March  27,  1893. 

I am  sorry  I cannot  send  the  picture.  I received 
your  telegram  this  morning,  and  it  caused  me  for  some 
reason  or  other  to  regard  my  picture  more  favorably;  it 
inspired  me  with  a transient  confidence,  now  departed.  I 
cannot  deceive  the  public  (if  that  chance  should  be 
afforded  me,  and  methinks  no  conscientious  jury  would 
admit  of  it)  in  the  presenting  of  so  noble  a scene  with  so 
slight,  so  feeble,  and  so  wretched  a counterfeit.  A snow 
picture  is  all  of  finest  edges,  most  delicate  tints,  which  it 
is  hopeless  to  slight.  Truly,  if  it  is  possible  to  say  one 
thing  requires  more  painting  than  another,  it  is  a winter 
landscape. 

I was  determined  to  send  it  you  this  morning  and 
abide  by  your  decision ; I even  went  the  length  of  having 
a box  made  for  it;  but  at  the  critical  moment,  as  the 
cover  was  ready  to  place  over  it,  my  sense  of  its  utter 
inadequacy  quite  overcame  all  other  considerations,  and 
now  I’m  fixed  in  my  determination  not  to  send  it. 

Truly,  the  weather  has  been  so  contrary  that  I've 
had  only  two  weeks'  work  on  it,  and  to  one  of  my  small 
powers  that  is  not  time  enough. 

I cannot  tell  you  how  vexing  it  is  to  me  to  have  noth- 
ing whatever  for  this  exhibition,  but  such  is  the  fact. 

I thank  you  again  and  again  for  the  trouble  I know 
you've  taken ; if  it  were  for  no  other  reason  than  to  com- 
plete your  part,  i.e.,  my  picture  in  your  frame,  I should 


LETTERS 


269 


be  strongly  tempted  to  send  it,  but  it  is  an  impossible 
case,  believe  it,  Joe,  not  a matter  of  fantastical  doubts. 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  May  2,  1893. 

What  think  you  of  French’s  gigantic  lady?  It  has 
dignity  and  considerable  charm,  has  it  not?  There  is 
something  admirable  about  his  work  of  that  order  very 
lacking  to  most  American  efforts — something  reserved 
and  scholarly,  a kind  of  authority,  which  the  French  so 
remarkably  possess,  something  almost  classic.  Well,  he 
has  a touch  of  this,  whereas  most  of  the  designs  (I  judge 
by  what  I have  seen  in  the  magazines)  strike  me  as  being 
flimsy,  experimental,  without  power  or  confidence. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  October  1,  1893. 

Shall  I not  send  you  “David  Balfour”  ? I have  fin- 
ished it.  But  perhaps  it  would  be  well  to  wait  until  you 
leave  the  so  distracting  place  of  the  World’s  Fair,  for  it 
is  a book  to  be  read  with  all  the  powers  of  appreciation 
you  possess.  I am  fresh  from  reading  it,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  way  of  story-telling  to 
surpass  the  last  part  of  it.  It’s  a great  treasure  among 
books. 

This  reminds  me  of  something  that  appears  to  me 


270 


STOWE  NOTES 


exceedingly  comical:  the  fact  that  Vermont,  in  order  to 
show  to  the  world  its  wealth  of  marble  quarries,  has 
adopted  the  Pompeian  style  for  its  State  building.* 
What  genius  conceived  this  plan,  to  unite  such  seem- 
ingly conflicting  conditions  of  life  ? The  interior  is  said 
to  be  decorated  in  the  Pompeian  fashion.  What  can  this 
mean  ? Find  out  for  me,  will  you  not  ? Perhaps  there  is 
a frieze  representing  the  sturdy  Vermonter,  with  sheep- 
skin leggings  and  mittens,  his  toga  wrapt  about  him, 
armed  with  a bit-stock  and  a half-inch  bit,  sallying  forth 
to  tap  the  sugar  maples  on  the  slopes  of  Vesuvius;  or, 
possibly,  watching  a trotting  chariot  race  at  the  amphi- 
theatre; or  bringing  in  the  harvest  with  dancing  and 
song  (so  like  him!)  and  sacrifices  to  Ceres. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  HENRY 

Stowe,  October  30,  1893. 

Have  you  read  “David  Balfour”  ? Do  so.  It  is  won- 
derful ; all  Stevenson’s  old  power,  or  lacking  but  little  of 
it,  and  coupled  with  something  more  masterly,  more  in- 
evitable in  the  telling. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  November  2,  1893. 
M.  has  been  reading  “Wuthering  Heights”  aloud.  I 
don’t  recommend  any  one  to  read  it,  and  I hate  even  to 


* At  the  Chicago  Exposition. 


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271 


think  of  it,  for  it  comes  near  the  chief  position,  in  my 
opinion,  of  all  the  outrageous  conceptions  ever  written 
down.  The  appeal  to  the  feelings  would  seem  too  gross 
if  it  were  not  for  the  terrible  reality  of  the  story,  which 
convinces  when  the  credulity  is  most  strained,  and  makes 
to  seem  true  and  reasonable  what  would  otherwise  ap- 
pear as  outrageous  improbability.  It  is  much  less  like 
an  imaginative  work  than  a simple  narration  of  actual 
occurrences. 

Yet  there  are  some  moments,  certainly  one,  where  it 
approaches,  and  perhaps  reaches,  the  pathos  of  real 
tragedy — I mean  where  Catherine  (the  first  Catherine) 
learns  of  Heathclifif’s  return.  You  know  the  book,  do 
you  not? 

It  reads  like  a story  that,  if  not  actually  witnessed, 
has  gradually  grown  up  in  the  mind  and  been  so  studied 
and  so  felt,  each  character  so  clearly  seen,  that  no  uncer- 
tainty or  obscurity  at  any  moment  of  the  narration 
troubled  the  author’s  mind.  The  touch  is  as  sure  as  if 
in  every  turn  and  circumstance  of  the  story  it  followed 
the  cold  fact. 

The  style,  to  my  thinking,  is  admirable,  so  simple,  so 
clear,  and  every  now  and  then  illuminated  with  thrilling 
words. 

So  far  as  I have  read  of  the  Bronte  works,  this  seems 
to  me  easily  second.  It  is  an  ugly  depressing  story ; ter- 
ror and  gloom  make  the  atmosphere  of  all  their  works,  as 
well  as  of  their  history. 


272 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  MRS.  JOHN  W.  ELLIOT 

Stowe,  November  19,  1893. 

The  books  were  all  appreciated.  There  wants  no 
apology  for  the  amount  of  literature;  on  the  contrary, 
the  more  thanks  are  due  you.  My  mother  took  very 
kindly  to  Mr.  Trollope’s  work,  and  for  my  part  I find  the 
books  on  Arabian  travel  interesting  throughout.  The 
Arab’s  is  certainly  an  ideal  existence. 

The  illustrations  of  “La  Marche  a l’Etoile”  are  im- 
pressive; the  mystery  of  the  silhouette  figures  and  the 
simplicity  of  the  designs  appeal  strongly  to  the  imagina- 
tion. There  is  an  atmosphere  of  night,  and  a sense  of 
width  and  stillness,  as  of  an  open  and  wintry  country, 
very  powerfully  rendered.  The  appearance  in  the 
various  groups  of  sustained  and  deliberate  motion 
seemed  to  me  to  be  admirably  given.  I am  curious  to 
know  what  the  music  is  like. 

F.  will  have  told  you,  perhaps,  of  her  finding  a little 
Acadian  owl  in  our  wood.  He  was  very  compact,  very 
cunning,  and  winked  his  eyes  at  us  in  a sleepy  manner; 
but  they  had  nevertheless  the  angry  expression  of  a bird 
of  prey,  and,  when  fully  opened  upon  you,  conveyed  a 
feeling  of  awe  or  rebuke  very  odd  as  being  imposed  by 
such  a small  personality. 


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TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  May  4,  1894. 

This  is  the  most  astonishing  spring;  it  comes,  as  Brer 
Rabbit  might  put  it,  “a-zoonin’.”  All  one  can  do  is 
feebly  to  express  admiration  at  the  rapid  succession  of 
events ; to  endeavor  to  record  any  of  these  daily  chang- 
ing aspects  is  quite  out  of  the  question. 

The  hobble-bush,  the  cherry,  the  June-berry  are 
out.  The  dog-tooth  violet,  spring-beauty,  Dutchman’s 
breeches,  hepatica  are  all  about  over.  I found  one  and 
the  last  hepatica  flower  yesterday,  but  I saw  from  the 
scattered  petals  that  many  had  been  in  bloom.  The  trees 
are  cloudy,  round,  of  pale  pinks  and  yellows,  no  solid 
masses  of  foliage,  though  the  aspens  are  bright  green 
and  almost  in  full  leaf. 

It  has  been  hot  and  dry ; and  a strange  thing  it  is  to 
be  able  to  see  snow  not  only  on  Mansfield  but  in  the 
spruce  wood  of  Hogback. 

Cliff  swallows  were  here  on  the  21st  of  April,  so  you 
may  know  that  most  of  the  birds  have  arrived.  Last 
night  after  sunset,  for  the  first  time  this  year,  I heard  in 
the  swamp  the  rippling,  tripping  song  which  I think  is 
the  winter  wren’s. 


274 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  MRS.  JOHN  W.  ELLIOT 

Stowe,  May  18,  1894. 

Was  there  ever  a spring  so  early  and  so  swift?  The 
general  aspect  now  is  of  June  rather  than  May,  but  you 
know  the  Vermont  June  is  only  half  a summer  month. 

One  night  in  the  early  part  of  April,  as  my  mother 
and  I were  locking  doors  and  windows  and  putting  out 
lamps  before  going  to  bed,  just  before  the  last  light  was 
to  be  extinguished  my  mother  caught  sight  of  a flutter- 
ing object  on  the  floor,  which  proved  to  be  the  scarcely 
expanded  cecropia.  We  shut  him  up  in  a room  by  him- 
self and  kept  him  for  three  or  four  days.  I do  not  know 
if  they  feed  at  all  in  this  stage,  but  this  one  would  sit, 
slowly  waving  his  wings,  in  the  palm  of  my  hand,  and 
make  no  objection  to  a pin’s  head  coated  with  a syrup  of 
sugar  and  water  being  thrust  under  his  mouth ; indeed,  I 
thought  he  depressed  his  head  as  if  tasting  or  absorbing 
the  liquid,  but  it  may  have  been  an  involuntary  trembling 
of  my  hand  that  caused  the  seeming  action.  A warm 
spell  of  weather  followed,  so  we  took  advantage  of  it  to 
give  him  his  freedom;  his  attempted  flights,  ending  in 
staggering  encounters  with  the  walls,  were  a somewhat 
sickening  spectacle. 

It  was  a cruel  thing  to  hurry  up  his  appearance  under 
false  persuasion,  and  confront  him  with  bare  and  color- 
less April  when,  in  the  natural  order  of  things,  he  should 
have  broken  the  chrysalis  in  June.  I must  say  so  much, 
though  I remember  that  you  were  a party  to  the  deceit. 

Of  the  birds,  only  the  veeries  seem  late;  the  bobo- 


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links  sing,  but  the  veery  is  silent.  True,  they  are  mys- 
tery-lovers, and  never  sing  until  the  foliage  makes  a 
concealment,  but  this  year  I begin  to  fear  that,  like  the 
before  mentioned  singers,  they  have  passed  through  a 
stage  of  material  excellence  and  fallen  victims  to  the  un- 
natural appetites  of  West  Indians  or  inhabitants  of 
Guatemala.  But  this  is  a flippant  tone  to  take  respecting 
a thrush. 

I wish  you  could  see  the  colts  now ; they  are  running 
in  their  pasture,  and  are  full  of  tricks  of  unconscious 
posing,  for  the  poetical  pastoral,  wild,  etc.  They  con- 
tinue as  tame  as  dogs. 

By  the  way,  after  the  sudden  appearance  of  the 
moth,  my  mother  became  apprehensive  regarding  the 
wasp’s  nest,  so  there  is  nothing  to  report  of  that.  I 
carried  it  out  and  left  it  on  a stump  near  the  wood;  of 
what  has  since  happened  to  it  or  its  inhabitants  I know 
nothing. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  May  19,  1894. 

Drove  around  by  the  Moss  Glen  Fall  and  the  grassy 
road. 

The  long  hill  to  Brownsville  was  as  beautiful  as 
usual,  the  leaves  meeting  overhead,  the  banks  thick  with 
ferns  and  wild  flowers  and  spongy  with  mosses,  a real 
forest  undergrowth  of  hobble-bush  and  moosewood  on 
either  hand.  The  birds  are  beginning  to  sing  more  than 


276 


STOWE  NOTES 


they  did  two  weeks  ago,  and  at  last  I have  heard  the 
veery — the  “honeyed  whine/'  as  Charles  Reade  says. 

The  owner  of  Dandy  stopped  here  yesterday  at  noon. 
I was  rather  amused  by  him,  though  I thought  his  man- 
ners somewhat  demoralizing  for  the  youthful  help.  His 
face  was  smooth-shaven,  formed  and  informed  with  a 
kind  of  piggish  impudence — the  kind  of  raw  dandy  that 
only  a country  town  can  produce.  He  stood  about  smok- 
ing a vile  cigar,  and  commenting  in  a drawling  tone,  and 
not  without  some  slight  savor  of  wit,  on  H.’s  abilities 
as  a laboring  man. 

I go  regularly  every  day  to  have  a little  fighting 
game  with  Sintram.  Audrey  is  growing  tamer  and 
more  gentle  all  the  time.  She  begins  to  show  white  hairs, 
as  if  a star  were  forming  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead— 
as  a sign  of  a changed  nature  or  not,  I am  unable  to  say. 

Tell  R.  to  look  at  Cavazza's  sketch  called  “Jerry"  in 
the  “Atlantic"  (latest).  We  have  been  interested  in  her 
writing. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  May  23,  1894. 

I took  Polly  out  early  for  a long  drive  on  the  road 
that  H.  H.'s  enterprise  discovered,  that  which  lies 
between  the  stage  and  the  river  road  to  Waterbury 
Centre.  It  was  lovely,  reposeful,  and  still ; and  it  was  a 
real  relief  to  be  in  a country  so  shut  in.  From  this  road 
you  see  the  ragged  mountains  northeast  toward  Middle- 


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sex,  the  wall  of  the  Mansfield  spurs  to  the  west,  with 
Camel’s  Hump  terminating  the  line  in  the  southwest; 
Hogback,  too,  ranges  up  on  the  northeast.  But  some- 
how, in  spite  of  all  the  mountains  in  sight,  there  is  some- 
thing that  suggests  seclusion  and  repose,  for  there  are 
some  points,  looking  due  south  for  instance,  where  the 
sky-line  is  broken  by  grassy  knolls  crowned  with  groups 
of  thick-leaved  maples.  It  was  warm,  but  not  sultry, 
and  threatening  rain — enormous  masses  of  cloud  very 
black  over  the  Hump.  It  was  really  summer,  the  air  full 
of  warm  and  pungent  smells,  the  leaves,  ferns,  and 
grasses  full  and  thriving,  and  that  settled  aspect,  as  if 
there  had  never  been  any  state  but  summer  and  no 
change  of  season  would  ever  follow.  The  farmhouses, 
too,  had  that  air  (a  summer  characteristic)  of  having 
been  finally  deserted  by  their  inmates. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  August  6,  1894. 

What  a good  thing  that  was  of  Mrs.  Catherwood’s 
in  the  late  “Atlantic” — “Pontiac’s  Lookout.”  . . . 

In  literature,  the  world  goes  the  way  to  damnation 
with  a blindness  quite  astonishing.  For  my  part,  I don’t 
dare  to  look  beyond  the  title-page  of  any  new  book  that 
does  not  bear  one  of  the  names  Stevenson,  Wilkins, 
Hardy.  I have  a new  book  {not  a novel)  that  gives  me 
keen  joy;  it  is  Battell’s  “Register  of  Morgan  Horses.” 
There  are  in’t  photographs  that  well  exhibit  the  beauty 


278 


STOWE  NOTES 


of  the  Morgan  family,  and  I am  pleased  to  see  Polly’s 
grandsire  spoken  of  with  great  respect. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Summit  House,  Mount  Mansfield, 
August,  1894. 

We  have  already  spent  two  nights  here,  arriving  on 
the  first  day  at  about  six  o’clock.  It  was  clear  cold 
weather,  and  at  that  time  in  the  evening  the  Notch  was 
in  deep  shadow,  a dark  purple-blue— you  know  how 
dark  a spruce-timbered  mountain  like  Sterling  can  look. 
As  we  made  the  last  turn  on  the  road  toward  the  summit, 
the  north  wind  came  over  the  ridge  cold  and  strong, 
making  a wintry  sound  in  the  dwarf  firs.  Yesterday  was 
another  such  day,  but  warm  in  the  sun.  To-day  it  is 
bleak,  cloudy,  with  occasional  showers,  but  the  wind  con- 
tinues in  the  north. 

Beautiful  as  the  sunrise  is,  the  sunset  is  yet  more 
lovely,  to  my  thinking.  It  is  interesting  to  see  the 
shadow  of  the  Mountain  stretch  over  the  valley.  One 
experiences  a state  of  feeling  very  lofty  and  Olympian 
in  watching  the  night  overtaking  the  dwellers  below 
while  there  remains  to  us  a reserve  of  sunlight  in  the 
west. 

I have  heard  the  whistling  of  whitethroats,  the  twit- 
tering of  juncos,  and  have  seen  both,  but  no  redpolls — 
indeed,  nothing  else.  The  birds  are  shy,  and  hug  the 
bushes,  flying  low  and  stealthily.  I fancy  this  rocky 


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279 


region  is  a breeding  place  for  hawks,  which  would  ac- 
count for  the  timidity  of  the  lesser  birds.  Indeed,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  frequency  of  picnic  parties  and  the  bits 
and  crumbs  obtainable  about  the  house,  there  would  be 
no  especial  encouragement  for  the  birds  to  remain. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  September  6,  1894. 

I am  back  again  from  the  Mountain,  and  feel  much 
better  for  the  change.  It  was  a very  interesting  two 
weeks,  but  the  country  of  pigmy  forest  and  bare  rock, 
thick  cloud  mists  or  wide  map-like  extensions  of  view, 
is  too  phenomenal  to  be  well  endured;  it  is  full  of  a 
strange  interest,  but  there  is  no  repose. 

I found  nothing  to  paint,  but  there  were  many  wild 
and  interesting  effects.  Some  days  one  could  not  see 
more  than  a few  rods  away,  the  thick  mists  drifting  like 
smoke  among  the  firs ; at  night  the  lights  from  the  win- 
dows threw  a shadow  of  one's  self  upon  the  dense  cloud, 
and  there  were  strange  gliding  and  spectral  illumina- 
tions. Sometimes  people  would  kindle  fires  of  brush  and 
dead  fir  trees ; the  whole  top  of  the  mountain  would  be  lit 
up,  the  light  flickering  on  the  rocks,  showing  them  pale 
against  the  sky  for  an  instant,  and  again  leaving  them 
indistinguishable  in  dark  masses. 

The  only  wild  quadruped  I saw  on  the  Mountain 
(excepting  mice)  was  a weasel,  which  passed  close  by 
within  three  feet  of  me  without  observing  my  presence. 
He  looked  around  at  last,  but  testified  more  curiosity 


28o 


STOWE  NOTES 


than  alarm,  creeping  back  among  the  rocks  to  stare  at 
me ; he  thrust  his  little  head  out  of  a miniature  cave,  and 
his  eyes  shone  like  spots  of  gold. 

Eagles,  that  have  their  nest  in  Nebraska  Notch,  came 
sailing  over  the  Mountain  on  clear  still  days.  There  were 
hawks — chicken,  and  also,  I suspect,  the  marsh  harrier. 
I saw  flocks  of  juncos  and  whitethroats,  some  song  spar- 
rows, myrtle  warblers,  the  Nashville  warbler  (new  to 
me),  a pair  of  gold-crowned  kinglets,  and  a golden- 
winged woodpecker ; and  on  one  occasion,  on  a cold  day 
with  a leaden  wintry  sky,  I heard  a low  croaking  sound 
from  among  the  brush  on  the  steep  western  slope,  and 
presently  four  large  black  birds  arose,  wheeling  against 
the  sky,  and,  one  of  them  uttering  a loud  hoarse  croak, 
they  took  flight  across  the  Mountain  and  disappeared  in 
the  southeast ; they  were  ravens. 

On  one  very  cold  morning  a weasel  was  caught  asleep 
in  the  hotel  pantry;  he  was  put  into  a tin  pail,  the  top 
covered  with  a pane  of  glass,  and  exhibited  to  the  curi- 
ous for  an  hour  or  so.  I made  some  sketches  of  him ; he 
was  the  most  attractive  little  wild  creature  I have  ever 
seen.  His  eyes  were  rather  large  and  dark,  his  expres- 
sion innocent  and  somewhat  pathetic;  his  fur  was  so 
thick  as  to  form  ridges,  and  was  of  a liver-brown  color; 
the  tip  of  his  tail  was  obscurely  black.  Some  thought 
him  a young  one,  but  I believe  he  was  the  so-called  least 
weasel,  more  or  less  common  northward.  The  one  I saw 
two  or  three  days  previously  was  exactly  similar  in  size 
and  color.  He  did  not  appear  at  all  frightened,  but 
spent  the  greater  part  of  his  term  of  imprisonment 
curled  up  asleep. 


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281 


What  I wrote  you  of  the  plants  on  the  Mountain 
was  the  result  of  a superficial  observation  before  I had 
time  to  examine  them,  and  was  quite  erroneous.  If  it  is 
of  interest  to  you,  you  will  find  here  a more  accurate 
account  of  what  was  peculiar  to  the  summit,  the  region 
of  dwarf  forest  and  mossy  bogs  between  the  two  peaks : 

The  balsam  fir,  the  principal  tree. 

A dwarf  variety  (I  believe)  of  the  canoe  birch, 
mingled  everywhere  with  the  evergreens. 

The  spruce,  sparingly  on  the  summit. 

The  mountain  holly,  very  pretty  shrub  with  ash-gray 
bark,  pale  leaves,  and  red  solitary  berries. 

The  mountain  ash,  less  handsome  than  the  same  tree 
in  the  valley. 

Cranberry  tree,  common,  the  berries  less  deep  red 
but  more  transparent  and  (it  was  said)  sweeter  than 
those  of  the  cultivated  form  in  the  valley. 

Wild  black  cherry,  rare. 

Blueberries:  low(?);  Canadian,  with  downy  leaves 
and  branchlets ; dwarf,  with  the  lanceolate-leaved  alpine 
variety — very  pretty. 

The  bilberry  (called  blueberry  here).  The  leaves  are 
of  lovely  colors  at  this  time  of  year,  varying  from  a 
sage-green  to  purple. 

The  creeping  wintergreen,  in  among  the  mosses, 
very  common;  and  more  delicate,  with  smaller  pointed 
leaves,  was  the  creeping  snowberry. 

In  the  mossy  bogs,  the  small  cranberry,  with  tiny 
shining  leaves  and  mottled  terminal  berry. 

Bunch-berry  was  very  common. 

Of  spring  flowers,  I saw  the  leaves  of  many  lilies; 


282 


STOWE  NOTES 


of  goldthread  (very  common) ; of  two  kinds  of  violet; 
of  wake-robin  (one). 

The  blue  fruit  of  clintonia  (common),  and  a Solo- 
mon’s-seal. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  shrubs  was  the  Labrador 
tea,  the  leaf  dull  green,  the  edges  recurved,  and  beneath 
covered  with  a thick  rusty  wool;  when  crushed  the 
younger  leaves  gave  a sweet  fragrance  like  lavender,  the 
older  ones  had  a strong  and  somewhat  turpentiny  flavor. 

Indian-pipes  were  not  infrequent.  There  were  two 
plants  growing  in  moss,  one  in  wet  boggy  places,  the 
other  on  barren  slopes,  both  of  the  heath  family,  but 
which  I could  not  identify  satisfactorily.  Also  a lovely 
little  white  flower,  very  regular ; five  sepals,  five  petals, 
pod  (superior)  with  three  pistils,  ten  stamens,  regu- 
larly opposite  sepals  and  petals,  all  placed  individually 
on  the  receptacle.  Color,  white  with  fine  silvery  streaks. 
The  petals  are  notched  at  the  top,  spatulate  in  general 
form;  the  leaves  are  alternate  (I  think),  clasping,  and 
are  fine,  needle-like,  and  grow  densely  like  a moss.  The 
nearest  I come  to  it  in  Gray  is  the  cassiope,  an  alpine 
flower.  Perhaps  you  can  help  me  out.  It  was  very  com- 
mon, flourishing  where  it  seemed  impossible  for  any- 
thing but  lichens  to  find  the  means  of  life. 

Where  grass  had  been  sown  near  the  hotel,  butter- 
cups, asters,  some  kinds  of  goldenrod,  and  much  ever- 
lasting were  to  be  found,  also  a few  raspberry  bushes.  I 
found  also  a pretty  little  purple-veined  orchid. 

When  we  first  came  up,  there  was  a quantity  of 
snake-head  flowering  on  the  east  side  (not  on  the 
summit). 


LETTERS 


283 


The  substitution  of  moss  for  grass  in  the  open,  for 
leaf-mould  in  the  wood,  was  both  strange  and  delight- 
ful. In  boggy  places  there  were  velvety  carpets,  six 
inches  deep,  of  beautiful  orange-colored  moss;  indeed, 
there  were  almost  all  composite  colors,  none  pure,  of 
course,  except  perhaps  yellow. 

Much  of  the  time  on  the  Mountain  the  air  was  thick, 
smoky,  from  the  effect  of  the  terrible  Michigan  fires. 

I looked  through  that  very  dull  and  tiresome  book 
called  “Esther  Waters/'  but  I found  nothing  worth  the 
trouble. 

See  Stevenson's  “My  First  Book,"  in  “McClure's" 
current  number.  I am  reminded  of  the  Stevenson  plays. 
I enjoyed  them  exceedingly.  It  is  a very  diluted  form 
of  the  strong  Stevensonian  wine,  however ; you  miss  him 
where  he  is  best,  in  his  power  to  realize  in  a few  words 
of  inimitable  descriptive  writing. 

They  are  interesting  and  picturesque,  but  too  slight 
for  plays;  there  is  not  enough  body  to  them,  especially 
“Deacon  Brodie"  and  “Admiral  Guinea."  They  are  not 
based  on  common  fate  and  experience.  The  theme  is  not 
of  a deep  or  permanent  interest.  They  are  too  much 
made  of  what  is  phenomenal  and  incidental.  And  every- 
thing is  pushed  to  obtain  a picturesque  effect— and,  in- 
deed, perverted,  though  the  very  flimsiness  of  the  theme 
compels  it  generally,  as  in  the  case  of  the  unromantic, 
coarse  brute  Moore,  made  to  pose  at  the  close  of  one  of 
the  scenes  as  Brodie's  Mephistopheles — a device  to  close 
the  act  effectively. 

The  situations  do  not  come,  like  reading  and  writing, 
by  nature;  there  is  too  much  of  art  in  their  production. 


284 


STOWE  NOTES 


The  character  of  Brodie  is  enough  to  damn  the  play  in 
itself,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  is  a real  scamp,  and 
to  interest  as  a play  should  interest  there  must  be  at  least 
a balance  of  moral  qualities,  if  not  a preponderance  for 
good.  Mathias  in  “The  Bells”  is  an  instance  in  point;  in 
him  you  have  a genuine  picture  of  remorse.  There  is 
nothing  convincing  about  Brodie’s  remorse,  his  “new 
life,”  etc.  You  feel  that  it  was  but  a temporary  and 
fleeting  conception,  in  which,  by  pure  chance,  he  died. 
Indeed,  you  cannot  help  suspecting  that  it  was  but  an- 
other device  to  end  him  decently  and  extort  a little  sym- 
pathy not  properly  his  due.  As  for  “Admiral  Guinea,” 
it  is  an  incident,  not  a play.  Who  is  the  hero?  Not 
Christopher,  of  all  others;  not  the  Admiral,  who  is 
hardly  real.  Pew  is  the  hero ; such  being  the  case,  it  is 
necessarily  a failure. 

“Beau  Austin,”  because  it  has  a deeper  and  wider 
human  interest,  is  better,  but  it  is  not  a good  play,  to  my 
thinking. 

Notwithstanding  and  in  spite  of  feeling  all  this,  I 
read  them  with  interest  and  great  pleasure.  What  a 
wonderful  picture  of  the  various  rogues  of  the  last  cen- 
tury in  the  dicing  scene  in  “Deacon  Brodie” ! 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  November  13,  1894. 
Yesterday  at  evening  it  cleared,  and  remained  fine 
for  a few  hours.  M.  and  I had  gone  down  to  the  village 


LETTERS 


285 


with  Polly  in  the  little  yellow  sleigh.  We  came  home  just 
at  moonrise.  With  the  dispersement  of  the  clouds  the 
air  grew  intensely  cold.  The  mountains,  uncovered  for 
the  first  time  in  more  than  a week,  were  so  heavily 
frosted  that  they  seemed  from  the  cloud  line  built  up  of 
solid  ice,  every  tree  an  icy  pinnacle ; Hogback  and  Ster- 
ling were  rose-colored,  reflecting  the  sunset.  The  air 
was  very  clear,  and  there  was  no  dimness  or  reddening 
of  the  moon ; it  seemed  astonishingly  big  behind  the  trees 
in  the  wood  road  and  the  swamp,  and  shone  with  an  ex- 
tremely bright  and  cold  radiance.  Later  at  night  it  was 
very  powerful;  it  showed  the  Mountain  with  most  re- 
markable distinctness,  the  face  a dead  white  against  the 
sky,  and  the  snow  in  the  clefts  of  the  Notch,  behind  the 
shoulder  of  Sterling,  glimmered  with  such  brightness  as 
to  suggest  the  idea  of  being  lit  by  concealed  artificial 
light. 

The  day  before,  when  we  passed  through  the  woods, 
we  came  upon  a little  troop  of  partridges;  driven  from 
the  ground  thus  early,  they  were  feeding  on  the  imma- 
ture buds.  Some  fluttered  down  and  strutted  with  a 
jerky  hen-like  walk  through  the  snow;  several  flew  over, 
passing  high  above  us,  swiftly  and  silently  but  with  per- 
ceptible flutterment— a quick  motion  of  the  wings,  as  in 
the  flight  of  all  heavy  or  feeble  fliers. 

I hope  these  notings  of  every-day  Stowe  matters  are 
not  a bore  to  you.  It  pleases  me  to  write  them  down. 


286 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  HENRY  HOLT 

Stowe,  November  18,  1894. 

I don’t  feel  that  I can  do  much  more  to  help  your 
picture,  and  yet  I am  sorry  to  let  it  go,  because  I feel  that 
its  faults  are  glaring;  but  they  are  in  the  very  constitu- 
tion of  it,  and  to  amend  them  I must  needs  paint  it  over 
from  the  beginning.  This  would  not,  I believe,  meet 
with  your  approval;  and  there’s  a shrewd  doubt  of  my 
being  able  in  any  such  case  to  better  the  attempt.  How- 
ever, it  does  not  satisfy  me;  I think  it  is  both  hard  and 
weak  in  treatment.  In  years  hence,  if  I am  alive  and 
have  acquired  any  skill,  I’ll  offer  to  paint  it  over  for  you ; 
in  the  mean  time  it  must  serve  the  turn.  Those  who 
paint  as  I am  compelled  to  do,  by  fits  and  starts,  are  not 
able  to  command  an  even  flow  of  skill ; they  have  to  rely 
a great  deal  on  lifts  of  luck,  on  happy  moments.  So  it 
happens  this  picture  has  been  painted  at  unfavorable 
times,  mostly  when  I have  not  felt  very  well,  and  at  ir- 
regular and  long  intervals.  I think  it  shows  it. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  HENRY 

Stowe,  November  20,  1894. 

I thought  of  Kipling  the  other  day,  and  in  a chari- 
table spirit.  I remembered  the  “Punch”  parody  of  his 
account  of  his  American  experiences : how,  when  he  left 
the  train  at  Brattleboro,  he  seemed  to  find  himself  en- 


LETTERS 


287 


cased,  set,  as  it  were,  in  a great  sapphire.  Now  this  was 
true,  and  showed  a discriminating  sense  of  color.  To- 
ward evening  the  sky  is  sapphire-tinted,  and  the  moon 
and  stars  shine  with  a cold  blue  light. 

How  sad  and  sudden  is  this  news  of  Stevenson’s 
death ! What  a loss ! The  best  living  writer  of  English, 
“the  youngest  son  of  old  Sir  Walter,”  the  last  of  the 
story-tellers  gone,  while  the  realistic  novel  flourishes  as 
a green  bay  tree,  and  the  freer  field  exists  for  those 
“brainy”  authors  who  deal  with  the  vital  questions  of 
the  day. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  ROBERT 

Stowe,  January  19,  1895. 

The  idea  of  producing  “Henry  IV.”  is,  to  my  think- 
ing, most  happy.  I picture  the  Prince,  a blond  young 
fellow  whose  aim  is  to  appear  rather  fine  and  effeminate, 
with  all  his  roistering  and  swagger.  You  remember 
how  scornfully  he  decries  Hotspur’s  early  morning  sport 
of  Scot-killing  as  a superfluous  exhibition  of  brutish 
powers.  He  should  be  made  up  pale  rather  than  rosy, 
but  pretty;  and  I think  a woman  might  succeed  in  tem- 
pering in  her  personality  the  coldness  of  his  spirit  so  far 
even  as  to  make  the  part  a popular  success.  No  man 
could  so  play  the  part  and  be  other  than  what  the  Prince 
is  in  reality— selfish,  clever,  ungenerous,  no  fit  figure  for 
a hero. 

Do  you  remember  Howard  Pyle’s  “Men  of  Iron”? 


288 


STOWE  NOTES 


There’s  great  aid  in  the  dressing  of  the  piece  in  that 
book;  the  costumes  are  most  feelingly  rendered. 

Oh,  what  a play  to  put  upon  the  stage ! What  char- 
acters! The  scenes  are  more  vivid  to  my  mind’s  eye 
than  anything  else  in  literature,  I think.  How  can  you 
possibly  hope  to  fill  out  the  parts  as  they  should  be?  Yet 
despair  not;  a suggestion  in  the  right  way  would  be 
precious  indeed. 

I can  think  of  no  one  (but  then  I know  few  come- 
dians) to  be  a Falstaff,  save  Owen ; and  the  something  in 
his  style,  dry,  hard,  and  mercenary  (so  to  speak  it), 
might  lend  itself  to  express  the  underlying  cynicism  of 
the  character.  They  all  cry  out  for  talented  interpreta- 
tion— Bardolph,  the  old  dog;  Pistol  (Owen  would  be  well 
here  too)  ; Glendower ; the  King— I should  love  to  talk  the 
play  over  with  you.  One  scene  in  particular  requires  to 
be  played  between  good  actors— Hotspur’s  quarrel  with 
Glendower.  Hotspur,  of  course,  would  be  in  safe  hands, 
but  you  must  have  a good  Glendower.  He  is  a great  fig- 
ure. Do  you  remember  how  the  Pater,  in  telling  one  of 
his  stories,  would  rouse  himself  to  give  point  and  em- 
phasis to  the  climax,  his  eyes  (so  extraordinary,  with  a 
power  of  intense  expression  I have  never  seen  equalled) 
burning  truly  like  coals  of  fire?  You  know  the  manner. 
It  is  thus,  I believe,  that  Glendower  should  speak  his 
part,  with  passion  and  conviction— of  the  moment,  at  all 
events. 


LETTERS 


289 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Stowe,  February  6,  1895. 

You  have  escaped  the  coldest  spell  of  the  winter  in 
being  now  in  a comparatively  temperate  region.  It  is 
one  of  those  days  when,  from  an  indoor  point  of  view,  it 
would  seem  impossible  to  sustain  life  outside  for  any 
length  of  time.  There  is  no  speck  of  color  in  sky  or  land ; 
a shadowless  and  blinding  day,  with  overhead  a dense 
cloud  of  the  same  ghastly  white  as  the  snow.  Now,  at 
eleven  o’clock,  I have  just  been  around  to  the  piazza  to 
look  at  the  thermometer,  which  stands  at  180  below. 
Last  night  it  fell  to  — 220.  It  was  a dreadful  night;  the 
window-panes,  except  in  the  double  windows,  were  so 
clouded  by  frost  as  to  be  opaque.  It  was  unusually  dim, 
and  with  the  moon  somewhere  behind  the  clouds.  A 
heavy  wind  blew  from  the  west,  rattling  the  windows 
and  making  the  dry  snow  hiss  against  the  glass,  as  it 
does  in  a south  storm. 

Yesterday  I drove  to  the  village  to  mail  a letter  to 
you.  Polly  was  cramped  up  (you  know  how  horses 
stand  in  severe  weather,  with  the  flank  dropped,  the  legs 
drawn  in),  and  was  dancing  as  if  on  hot  plates.  There 
was  a cutting  wind,  and  much  drifting  snow  in  the  air ; 
I guessed  that  the  temperature  was  as  low  as  zero,  but 
on  reaching  home  I was  surprised  to  find  it  io°  below. 

Now  it  is  half  after  three.  I have  just  come  up  from 
the  barn,  where  I have  been  to  see  the  beasties.  They 
seem  reasonably  comfortable;  the  horses  are  double- 
blanketed.  The  bow-wows  go  on  three  legs  and  nearly 


290 


STOWE  NOTES 


shake  themselves  to  little  bits  when  out  of  doors,  and  the 
touch  of  the  brass  door-knob  on  the  bare  fingers  stings 
like  fire.  The  temperature  rose  five  degrees  about  one, 
but  the  wind  has  since  changed  to  the  north,  and  now  I 
see  there  is  a drop  again  to  160  below.  I expect  this  will 
be  a record-breaking  night  at  Four  Winds.  For  my  own 
part,  I am  amused  by  watching  to  see  how  low  the  tem- 
perature will  fall ; I do  not  suffer  from  the  cold. 

February  12. 

I saw  Mr.  W.,  and  asked  him  about  the  breeding 
of  Nancy’s  dam’s  sire’s  dam  Hibernia.  He  wrote  it  out 
in  the  form  of  a signed  statement,  and  I called  at  his 
office  this  morning  to  get  it.  He  read  it  to  me  in  an  ora- 
torical manner,  waving  his  right  hand  and  looking  up  at 
me  at  each  period,  his  voice  deep  and  rolling.  He  sat 
tilted  back  in  his  chair,  his  feet  on  the  stove,  and  his  hat 
cocked  over  one  eye. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  February  18,  1895. 

You  ask  if  I am  not  to  send  another  picture  to  the 
Exhibition.  I really  don’t  know.  Perhaps  you  heard 
that  I began  one  of  the  Mountain,  that  I was  compelled 
to  relinquish,  and  my  hope  was  then  to  finish  a smaller 
winter  sunset  picture,  which  I began  in  November. 

The  reason  why  I gave  up  the  former  is  that  the  sub- 
ject is  too  great  to  be  treated  otherwise  than  with  the 
best  of  whatever  powers  one  may  possess.  This  winter 


LETTERS 


291 


I have  been  conscious  of  the  beauty  of  the  country  rather 
as  pain  than  as  pleasure.  It  has  oppressed  without  in- 
spiring me ; all  this  winter's  painting  I have  done  under 
a compelling  sense  of  duty,  and  not  because  I have  found 
interest  or  amusement  in  it.  I have  felt  the  difficulties 
much  more  than  heretofore,  and  they  are  great.  In  the 
first  place,  the  weather  is  so  variable  that  the  same  effect 
(or  what  is  approximately  the  same,  sufficiently  so  for  a 
painter's  purpose)  occurs  perhaps  at  intervals  of  four  or 
five  days ; then  the  excessive  cold  compels  one  to  paint  in 
a cumbersome  fur  coat,  and  causes  such  difficulties  as  the 
clouding  of  the  glass,  the  stiffening  of  the  fingers,  and 
limits  my  endeavors  to  the  little  space  of  some  two  hours, 
for  besides  the  energy  expended  in  the  work  there  is  the 
additional  demand  for  resistance  of  the  cold.  You  can 
well  imagine  that  work  so  interrupted  and  of  such  short 
duration  must  be  taken  up  in  no  placid  spirit.  When- 
ever the  opportunity  occurs  to  continue  my  painting,  I 
find  I begin  work  in  a flurry,  made  nervous  by  the  feeling 
that  something  must  be  accomplished  before  the  effect 
changes  or  my  energy  fails,  and  hardly  have  I worked 
myself  into  a state  of  calmness  when  either  the  one  cause 
or  the  other  puts  an  end  to  the  proceedings.  My  eyes, 
also,  have  suffered  from  the  snow  glare — in  painting  the 
Mountain  picture  particularly,  for  in  that  case  I faced 
the  sun,  though  not  directly. 


292 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  MRS.  JOHN  W.  ELLIOT 

Stowe,  March  4,  1895. 

You  have  no  doubt  thought  it  odd  that  I did  not  re- 
turn the  “Lord  Ormont”  you  sent  me,  but  the  truth  is,  I 
ventured  to  keep  it  because  I was  anxious  not  to  lose  the 
opportunity  of  reading  the  book,  and  yet  could  not  find 
sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  begin  the  struggle  with  the 
forced  and  baffling  style  of  its  telling.  But  there  is  the 
same  lively  feeling  for  beauty  in  this  one  as  in  all. 

I must  tell  you  of  a little  trip  my  mother  and  I took, 
while  at  Waterbury,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  a horse  of 
the  old  and  now  rare  (in  unmixed  descent)  Morgan 
stock. 

We  drove  through  the  towns  of  Waitsfield  and  More- 
town,  which  lie  southeast  of  Camel’ s Hump.  The  latter 
is  a wildish  region,  well  timbered,  and  the  road  was  inter- 
esting and  but  little  travelled.  There  were  no  distant 
views,  for  the  valleys  were  deep  and  narrow,  but  the  peak 
of  the  Hump  from  time  to  time  overlooked  the  dark 
spruce-clad  ridges.  At  a well-to-do  farm  near  Waitsfield 
we  found  what  we  went  to  see.  The  horse  shows  his 
affinity  in  blood  to  the  old  Black  Hawk,  in  his  spirited 
bearing  as  well  as  in  the  jet  black  and  glossy  coat.  His 
head  was  wide  at  the  eyes  and  exceedingly  long  from  the 
setting  of  the  ear  to  the  eye,  which  was  of  a clear  hazel ; 
the  nose  fine  and  tapering;  the  lips  thin.  His  legs  were 
clean,  hard,  and  sinewy,  the  hoofs  round  and  high ; the 
flank  exceedingly  deep,  and  the  loins  broad  and  mus- 
cular, as  in  all  Morgans ; the  body  round,  the  back  short, 


LETTERS 


293 


the  neck  heavy,  with  a swelling  crest  against  which  the 
diminutive  ear  was  almost  hidden.  He  was  a horse  of 
the  old  times,  such  as  one  sees  in  Flemish  battle  pieces  of 
the  seventeenth  century;  of  great  solidity,  yet  with  an 
Arabian  fineness  of  finish. 

A deficiency  of  bone  in  the  shoulders  was  perhaps  his 
only  failing.  He  was  small,  barely  fifteen  hands,  but 
with  a carriage  and  action  I have  seldom  seen  equalled. 
It  shows  the  saddest  degeneracy  in  New  England’s  tastes 
and  morals  that  such  a stock  as  this  horse  represents  is 
now  superseded  by  the  poor  creature,  loose-coupled, 
leggy,  wooden-headed,  the  Hambletonian  trotting  horse. 
Truly  we  live  among  an  unblessed  generation;  when  the 
lumber  dealers  and  horse  breeders  have  accomplished 
their  ends,  it  will  be  time  for  a second  deluge. 

This  winter  has  been  very  severe;  bare  ground  has 
not  been  seen  here  for  four  months;  we  have  almost 
given  up  hope  of  any  other  season.  One  looks  anxiously 
now  for  shore  larks,  tree  sparrows,  perchance  bluebirds ; 
so  far  none  have  made  an  appearance. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  March  17,  1895. 

Thanks  for  the  catalogue.  I agree  with  you  about 
Kenyon  Cox’s  design ; yet,  like  all  of  his,  it  has  so  much 
that  is  good  and  truthful  that  one  laments  all  the  more 
that  additional  feeling  (of  poetry,  sense  of  beauty, 
what?),  the  charm  which  is  always  lacking.  His  is  a 


294 


STOWE  NOTES 


Spartan  attitude— he  will  not  concede  a stroke,  a line,  to 
the  pettiness  of  the  “pretty” : rather  he  seems  happy  to 
insist  on  what  is  unlovely,  than  to  relax  his  severity. 

Do  you  care  for  “Lord  Ormont”?  Frankly,  I do  not 
like  it  particularly.  I do  not  believe  in  George  Meredith ; 
he  seems  to  be  in  a false  position  as  a novelist— he  is  so 
little  of  a story-teller ; and  I think  this  is  why  this  sophis- 
ticated age  has  come  so  to  dote  upon  him.  It  seems  as  if 
he  did  not  feel  well  enough  convinced  of  the  reality  of 
his  story  to  dare  to  put  it  in  simple  phrase;  his  style 
seems  a device  to  create  atmosphere,  not  only  to  assist 
the  reader’s  but  to  help  his  own  powers  of  realization. 

Mrs.  Elliot  said  that  in  this  book  he  exhibited  a better 
grasp  of  the  story,  a more  convincing  lead  to  the  culmi- 
nating situation  (at  least  I understood  her  so),  but  I do 
not  find  it  so;  it  seems  to  me  just  as  little  inevitable  as 
others  of  his  works.  It  is  like  the  studio  work  of  a 
painter:  it  does  not  convince  on  the  face  of  it,  but  re- 
quires some  adaptation  of  the  mood  in  order  to  believe 
in  it,  and  then  one  is  rewarded  with  much  that  is  true 
and  a great  deal  that  is  beautiful.  The  two  heroes  are 
shadowy  but  pleasing ; I have  no  distinct  impression  of 
either  Lord  Ormont  or  Matey.  I dare  say  mine  is  not  the 
kind  of  mind  to  do  justice  to  the  work;  perhaps  you  will 
think  so  too  when  I say  that  for  me  “the  man  Morsfield” 
is  the  real  hero,  and  that  episode  the  best  part  of  the 
story. 


LETTERS 


295 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  April  4,  1895. 

I have  had  such  a delightful  letter  from  Thayer  con- 
cerning my  picture.  I’ll  enclose  it  to  you  because  I know 
both  you  and  H.  would  like  to  see  it.  Pray  show  it  to  no 
one  else.  You  know  how  kind  Thayer  is,  how  apt  to  do 
more  than  justice  to  every  one  but  himself. 

In  about  a week  I shall  send  down  my  picture  (not 
pictures,  which  you  write  of).  There  is  but  one,  and 
that  a poor  thing.  It  is  indeed  a complete  failure.  It 
fails  to  convey  the  effect  and  sentiment  it  is  supposed  to 
catch,  as  also  it  fails  in  the  way  it  is  painted.  I would 
not  send  it,  only  that  Thayer’s  letter  and  the  favorable 
things  said  about  the  picture  now  exhibited  give  me  a 
kind  of  Dutch  courage. 

I seem  to  have  painted  this  one  with  stiff  fingers, 
frozen  paint,  and  heart  and  mind  considerably  below 
zero.  Indeed,  such  is  partly  true. 

It  is  very  unskilful,  not  truly  felt,  and  also  not  fin- 
ished; but  of  finishing  it  I despair,  because  it  is  our  ex- 
pectation to  spend  next  winter  in  the  South— otherwise 
I should  be  glad  to  let  the  thing  go  over  another  year. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Worcester,  April  22,  1895. 

I am  pleased  that  you  have  asked  Brush.  I want  his 
criticism,  and  also  I want  to  hear  how  you  are  impressed 


296 


STOWE  NOTES 


by  him.  I do  not  know  him,  but  think  he  must  be  ex- 
cellently simple,  Spartan,  etc. 

There  is  here  a picture  of  Joe’s  which  he  painted  long 
ago  at  Scarboro.  I never  knew  before  how  truthful  it 
was,  though  I have  always  taken  pleasure  in  its  color. 
But  acquaintance  with  a mountainous  country  has  taught 
me  a little  concerning  those  transitions  from  purple  to 
blue  which  terminate  at  last  in  so  pure  a color  that  it 
would  be  hard  to  exaggerate  in  what  one’s  palette  offers. 
The  foreground  is  pale,  as  if  the  sunshine  bleached  out 
color,  but  the  distance  of  a jewel-like  brightness.  It  is 
just  as  I see  nature.  It  has  a charming  warm  afternoon 
atmosphere.  It  is  indeed  too  soft,  too  warm,  for  rigid 
New  England,  and  I should  think  it  very  characteristic 
of  the  place  in  which  it  was  painted. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

Worcester,  April  25,  1895. 

You  can  well  understand  how  one  misses  birds,  par- 
ticularly at  this  time  of  year,  for  the  English  sparrow  is 
not  a bird,  rather  the  case  of  the  transmigrated  soul  of  a 
street  urchin.  Instead  of  the  song  sparrow’s,  the  white- 
throat’s,  or  the  robin’s  song,  to  hear  of  mornings  that 
dry  harsh  sound! — bird  note  it  is  not. 


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297 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Worcester,  May  1,  1895. 

The  30th  of  last  month  was  Carlotta’s  birthday,  but, 
Miss  C.  being  away,  the  festivities  were  postponed  until 
to-day.  They  consisted  of  a little  cake  with  four  candles 
(white  and  red),  lady’s-fingers,  and  a dish  of  ice-cream 
of  the  same  variety  in  color. 

I lunched  with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  G.  H.  was  to  have 
been  there  also,  but  he  arrived  very  late,  having  been 
detained  by  a lecture ; but  when  we  came  away,  we  took 
Margaret  with  us,  as  it  seems  the  children  were  anxious 
to  have  her  of  the  party.  At  the  last  moment  her  mother 
thrust  into  her  hand  a small  box  containing  two  feathers 
fit  to  decorate  a doll’s  bonnet,  and  gave  her  to  understand 
that  they  were  a present  for  Carlotta.  This  extraordi- 
nary little  lady  then  marched  off  with  these  two,  to  her, 
almost  strange  men,  taking  H.’s  hand  with  one  of  her 
own  and  in  the  other  clutching  fast  her  box.  This  box 
seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  mind,  for  she  refused  to  allow 
me  to  carry  it  for  her,  and  at  the  very  moment  of  cross- 
ing the  threshold  and  meeting  with  Carlotta,  who  came 
to  open  the  door  for  us,  she,  in  impressive  silence,  thrust 
it  forward  into  Carlotta’s  hands.  The  latter  received  it 
without  much  understanding  the  nature  of  the  presenta- 
tion, whereat  Margaret  repossessed  herself  of  it,  and 
still  silently,  with  her  eyes  fixed  solemnly  on  Carlotta’s, 
removed  the  cover,  disclosed  the  contents,  and,  shutting 
the  box,  again  placed  it  in  Carlotta’s  hands. 

All  queries  addressed  to  her  she  answered  with  nods, 


298 


STOWE  NOTES 


and  made  but  one  remark  during  the  feast — something 
she  said  in  a loud  and  cheerful  tone,  but  nobody  under- 
stood it.  It  was  in  a language  quite  of  her  own,  and 
each  child  in  succession  gave  up  the  effort  to  interpret  it. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  May  13,  1895. 

The  weather  has  very  suddenly  turned  from  an  un- 
usual heat,  which  advanced  foliage  in  two  weeks  to  the 
degree  that’s  usually  seen  here  about  the  middle  of  June 
(for  the  apple  blossoms  had  already  begun  to  show 
themselves  and  the  ashes  were  out),  to  a nipping  and  an 
eager  air.  Frost  is  again  on  the  mountains,  and  if  the 
present  heavy  cloud  should  break  and  disperse,  to-night 
will  be  one  of  significance  to  birds  (if  they  had  the  wit? 
rather  the  folly,  to  make  much  of  such  matters),  for  a 
frost  on  the  lowlands  will  certainly  destroy  the  wild 
cherry  crop. 

Here  we  have  not  heard  a note  of  the  thrushes  as  yet. 
If  I went  down  to  the  swamp  after  sunset,  I might  hear 
the  winter  wren ; that  would  be  the  best  song  now,  none 
better  at  any  time,  except,  of  course,  the  immortals  and 
devils — hermits  and  veeries. 

TO  JOE  EVANS 

Stowe,  August  19,  1895. 

I have  heard  from  Thayer  about  his  portrait  of  Miss 
B.  I guess  that  between  them— the  lady  with  so  much 


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299 


of  delicate  charm  and  the  painter  with  such  rare  powers 
for  just  such  expression— it  must  be  a lovely  thing. 

He  sent  me  a photograph  of  his  “Virgin  Enthroned/' 
which  is  impressive,  and  to  me,  who  know  so  well  the 
subtleties  of  his  work,  suggests  something  very  beauti- 
ful. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  September  2,  1895. 

I wrote  you  on  the  31st,  having  then  received  the 
photographs,  etc.,  of  Rodin's  work,  but  I kept  the  letter, 
since  on  perusal  of  it  I found  its  tone  very  unsympa- 
thetic, and  I did  not  wish  to  express  myself  rashly,  par- 
ticularly in  a matter  where  it  seems  you  feel  so  strongly. 
I know  what  you  worship  in  art— force;  so  I am  not 
surprised  at  your  admiration. 

I am  sorry  I cannot  sympathize  with  you,  but  I am 
not  touched;  all  I feel  is  the  man's  power.  Even  you 
must  admit  the  incompleteness  of  the  work,  its  great 
lacking — absence  of  charm.  And  also  it  seems  to  me 
that  in  the  subjects  that  offer  most  poetically  he  suc- 
ceeds less  well. 

The  “Saint  John"  I cannot  admire;  there  seems  no 
feeling  for  beauty,  none  even  for  dignity.  The  “Calais 
Burghers,"  though  impressive,  is  a trifle  grotesque — a 
parlous  fault;  and  as  for  the  “Ninety-three,"  which  you 
so  admire,  I think,  considering  the  nature  of  the  subject, 
it  is  inadequate.  There  is  incompleteness  in  the  artistic 
make-up,  and  a want,  too,  of  the  best  qualities  in  one 


300 


STOWE  NOTES 


who,  treating  the  subject,  suggests  the  terror  and  passion 
without  the  heroic  fire. 

The  portrait  busts  are,  of  course,  full  of  power  and 
of  character. 

The  door,  I suppose,  is  the  work  on  which  to  form  a 
judgment,  but  of  that  I get  too  slight  an  impression  to 
venture  any  opinion.  Indeed,  unless  one  is  at  once  in 
sympathy  with  the  work,  how  little  impression  these  few 
sketches,  etc.,  give! 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Stowe,  October  6,  1895. 

Never  did  the  country  look  more  charming.  It  is 
now  literally  of  the  loveliest  rose-color,  for  we  have  none 
of  the  too  clear  weather  of  autumn,  nor  yet  of  the  thick 
and  hazy  kind  so  characteristic  of  the  time  of  year.  The 
atmosphere  is  more  that  of  spring,  with  a slight  moisture 
in  the  air,  which  gives  softness  to  the  landscape. 

I have  just  finished  “The  Romance  of  Dollard” — the 
best  book  (novel),  in  my  opinion,  from  any  American 
pen  since  Hawthorne. 


TO  MRS.  JOHN  W.  ELLIOT 

Bainbridge,  Georgia,  December  20,  1895. 
You  must  know  that  I have  been  long  intending  to 
answer  your  letters,  and  now  for  the  first  time  I find 
myself  with  energy  sufficient  to  take  pleasure  in  doing  so. 


LETTERS 


301 


First  let  me  go  back  to  the  photographs  of  the  Arab; 
my  interest  in  them  was  great.  At  first,  I confess,  I was 
disappointed  to  find  less  beauty  than  I had  looked  for, 
but  the  extraordinary  general  excellence  of  the  points 
began  to  show  itself  as  I examined  more  of  the  photo- 
graphs. The  only  possible  criticism  a horseman  might 
make  would  perhaps  be  to  wish  for  a greater  length 
between  hip  and  hock;  to  me  the  hock  seemed  placed  a 
little  high  for  perfection,  but  I am  really  no  judge.  The 
nose  and  lips  seemed  finer  than  anything  I have  ever 
seen  in  horse-flesh,  but  I think  there  are  many  Morgan 
stallions  with  larger  brain-room,  wider  spaced  between 
the  eyes.  The  expression  interested  me  in  differing 
from  that  of  fine  horses  of  our  domestic  breeds;  though 
equally  intelligent,  it  seemed  rather  wild  than  gentle. 

This  is  a singular  country  where  we  are  now.  It  is 
really  the  first  time  we  have  been  quite  separated  from 
Northern  civilization;  we  have  here  unadulterated 
Southern  life.  To  say  that  it  is  comfortable,  enjoyable, 
pretty,  or  admirable,  except  in  respect  to  the  air  and 
sunshine,  would  be  to  exaggerate  grossly.  It  is,  in  fact, 
rude,  grim,  and  uncomfortable;  there  seems  to  be  no 
shrinking  from— in  fact,  no  consciousness  of  ugliness. 
The  town  might  be  pretty,  with  its  superb  oaks  and  beau- 
tiful evergreens  of  many  kinds,  but  neglect  and  squalor 
everywhere  make  the  place  far  from  pleasing.  There 
are  many  picturesque  sights,  but  they  are  of  a sombre 
order— the  wild-looking  black  men  that  come  in  from 
the  woods,  ragged  figures  with  curious  long-bladed  axes 
used  for  boxing  the  turpentine  trees ; the  manacled  pris- 
oners that  pass  to  and  from  the  jail  and  court  house 


302 


STOWE  NOTES 


under  a guard,  who  carry  their  rifles  in  not  very  soldierly 
manner,  but  one  that  suggests  convenience  for  a quick 
shot. 

I do  not  think  I have  seen  more  than  one  leading 
citizen  as  yet.  On  the  whole,  the  men  are  stout,  brutal- 
looking,  but  not  much  differing  from  the  types  one  sees 
in  manufacturing  towns  in  New  England.  The  country 
North  certainly  breeds  something  better— still  I am  not 
disposed  to  insist  very  strongly  on  this,  either;  New  Eng- 
landers have  not  all  the  virtues. 

I am  delighted  to  hear  that  Brush  is  to  make  a draw- 
ing of  your  little  boy.  Though  I know  nothing  of  his 
work  (alas!)  within  the  last  five  or  six  years,  yet  I have 
always  greatly  admired  it. 

It  is  really  hard  to  believe  that  it  is  close  upon  Christ- 
mas, while  the  weather  remains  as  warm  as  the  Vermont 
June.  We  are  reminded  of  the  fact,  however,  in  a rather 
singular  way,  by  the  explosion  every  evening  of  tor- 
pedoes, fire-crackers,  etc.,  which  the  negroes  call  “hurry- 
ing up  Christmas.” 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Bainbridge,  December  27,  1895. 

I have  just  finished  Hardy’s  book,  miscalled  “novel.” 
Some  time  ago  I ventured  the  bold  statement,  when  H. 
and  I were  discussing  the  author  in  question,  that  I 
thought  “Tess”  just  escaped  being  a decided  failure  as  a 
work  of  art,  and  that  in  any  view  it  was  artistically 
feeble.  It  was  the  intensity  of  feeling,  and  the  poetry 


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303 


of  Tess's  personality,  and  (what  H.  rightly  calls  Hardy's 
great  power,  his  best)  the  suggestion  of  the  poetry  in 
the  old  pagan  peasant  life  of  England,  that  were  the 
saving  elements  in  the  book.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
dry,  loveless,  inartistic  treatment  of  the  villain  and  of 
almost  all  the  other  characters,  including  Angel  himself, 
is  surely  a damning  quality.  No  man  who,  undertaking 
to  write  a novel,  concentrates  all  his  feeling  on  a single 
character  can  hope  for  an  artistic  whole;  but  to  treat 
other  characters  as  creatures  repellent  to  his  own  feel- 
ings (as  is  evidently  his  attitude  toward  his  villain  Alec) 
is  absurd.  No  record  made  with  aversion  or  loathing  is 
art.  Artistic  villainy  is  created  otherwise.  I'll  venture 
to  say  that  nothing  in  the  way  of  the  devil  outdoes  our 
friend  ‘Tew."  And  yet,  instead  of  being  a dead  indi- 
gestible weight  like  Alec  D'Urberville,  he  is  a joy  for- 
ever, a kind  of  horrible  delight.  And  why?  Because  he 
is  moulded  by  the  loving  touch  of  the  real  artist.  Per- 
haps Hardy  is  too  emotional  to  be  a perfect  artist.  Well, 
however  that  may  be,  he  is  not  now  the  man  who  wrote 
“Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd";  he's  turned  himself 
into  a realist,  or  a querist,  or  something  that  is  not  an 
artist. 

This  “Jude  the  Obscure"  is  a wonderful  instance  of 
what  the  evil  times  may  bring  forth.  It  is  told  in  the 
deadest,  most  perfunctory  manner ; it  has  not  one  touch 
of  his  great  power;  indeed,  so  far  from  showing  the 
poetry  of  the  peasant  life,  it  evidently  aims  at  the  reverse, 
and  ugly  and  accidental  incidents  are  insisted  upon,  as 
with  the  true  realists.  It  is  so  persistently  pushed  in  the 
directions  of  defeat  and  misery  that,  to  my  thinking,  it  is 


304 


STOWE  NOTES 


not  a truthful  picture  of  human  life.  The  characters  are 
treated  with  a remarkable  lack  of  feeling;  he  has  not 
been  able,  apparently,  to  expend  any  emotional  power 
upon  one,  even;  he  is  simply,  like  Dogberry,  bestowing 
his  tediousness  upon  us.  “What !”  the  public  should  cry, 
like  the  horrified  Leonato,  “all  your  tediousness  upon 
us!”  It  is  a dreadful  thing  for  an  artist  to  get  to  holding 
theories;  the  title-page  of  “Tess”  was  the  first  sign  of 
it,  in  the  acute  form,  in  Hardy's  case— now  he  seems 
past  cure.  The  next  thing,  you  will  find,  he’ll  be  writing 
plays  like  Ibsen’s — and  I’m  disposed  to  think  they  will 
not  be  so  good ! 

I think  in  the  preface  he  says  something  to  the  effect 
that  he  has  endeavored  to  bring  home  to  the  reader’s 
appreciation  the  tragedy  of  misunderstood  endeavors 
and  defeated  aims.  So  far  as  the  shock  to  the  sensibili- 
ties of  the  reader  is  concerned,  he  (Hardy)  may  rest  him 
merry.  It  wants  art  to  raise  a story  to  the  height  of 
tragedy.  But  as,  after  all,  his  wish  was  probably  “to 
make  your  flesh  creep,”  it  would  be  no  consolation  to  him 
that  nervous  tissue  had  been  spared.  However,  his  re- 
ward will  be  great  in  the  sale  of  his  book  and  the  applause 
of  the  Philistines. 

You  see  I am  rather  vexed;  but  so  must  all  be  who 
once  loved  Hardy. 


LETTERS 


305 


TO  JOE  EVANS 

Bainbridge,  February  29,  1896. 

This  is  now  our  second  day  at  our  log  cabin  in  the 
pine  woods,  a much  more  desirable  place  than  a boarding- 
house in  a Southern  town. 

It  is  surprising  that  these  odd  structures  do  not  pre- 
sent a more  interesting  appearance.  This  is  built  of  the 
barked  logs,  its  chimney  half  of  brick,  half  of  clay  and 
sticks,  its  veranda  of  an  interesting  depth,  and  yet,  some- 
how, it  looks  odd,  without  being  in  the  least  picturesque. 
I think  the  trouble  must  be  the  lack  of  color;  ’tis  all  a 
uniform  dirty  gray. 

Though  the  weather  is  pleasantly  warm  and  we  sit 
with  doors  and  windows  open  until  bedtime,  yet  there 
are  no  signs  of  spring.  True,  there  is  under  one  window 
a peach  tree  in  blossom,  and  near  at  hand  it  is  a delight- 
ful intimation,  but  as  an  element  in  the  landscape,  among 
the  dead  old  oaks  and  the  long  shafts  of  the  pines,  it 
counts  for  very  little.  You  know  perhaps  how  it  is  in 
these  Southern  woods:  you  hear  that  the  jasmine  is 
blooming  in  February,  and  your  mind's  eye  sees  the  pic- 
ture of  bursting  spring.  It  is  a fact  that  the  jasmine 
blooms  in  February  or  even  earlier,  but  it  takes  nothing 
from  the  wintry  aspect  of  the  leafless  swamps ; one  might 
readily  take  the  yellow  of  the  flower  for  frost-bitten 
leaves. 

The  beauty  as  well  as  the  wealth  of  the  country  is  the 
long-leaved  yellow  pine.  The  pine  is  a tree  of  all  regions, 
is  it  not?  But  I think  this  pine  shows  an  affinity  with 


3°6 


STOWE  NOTES 


tropical  forms  in  the  manner  of  its  growth— the  flat 
spreading  tops,  so  unlike  the  conical  forms  of  Northern 
evergreens.  It  is  beautiful  in  color,  a bright  green  with 
shadows  of  purple-blue,  more  pure  in  color  than  I have 
ever  noticed  to  be  the  case  with  any  of  the  evergreens. 
At  a distance  in  this  thick  air  the  foliage  becomes  a dusky 
purple.  The  edge  of  a pine  wood  where  there  are  innu- 
merable patches  of  purple  shadow  and  the  (lilac)  trunks 
as  close  as  organ  pipes,  and  where  there  is  certain  to  be 
one  or  two  long  bone-white  shafts  with  a crown  of 
skeleton  boughs  rigid  as  old  roots— such  a place  offers  a 
very  tempting  subject.  I wish  I had  had  better  health 
this  winter  and  could  have  attempted  it. 

The  winter  skies,  too,  have  been  charming — like  our 
spring  skies,  pale  blue  with  light  streaky  clouds,  and 
toward  the  horizon  turning  pinkish  or  purple. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Bainbridge,  March  i,  1896. 

You  remember  the  learned  man  thought  Poetry  lived 
in  the  hot  country,  and  the  Shadow  made  certain  vague 
claims  to  having  there  been  in  the  anteroom  of  Poetry's 
abode.  In  my  opinion,  the  learned  man  was  quite  mis- 
taken, and,  the  Shadow  having  turned  out  such  a thor- 
ough-going scamp,  I think  it  is  not  too  much  to  suppose 
him  a liar  in  the  bargain.  Poetry  is  too  fine,  too  subtle 
a spirit  ever  to  have  left  the  North. 

To  my  sick  eye  this  country  seems  a great  waste 
place,  crude,  squalid,  already  half  ruined— no  forest 


LETTERS 


307 


where  the  tree  trunks  are  not  blackened  by  fire,  scarce  a 
pine  that  has  not  the  filthy  witness  of  human  rapacity, 
the  blackened  scar  of  an  old  boxing.  The  young  oaks 
that  flourish  on  the  barrens  are  twisted,  misshapen,  with 
rough  bark  and  bristling  adventitious  branches;  they 
are  to  other  young  trees  as  street  urchins  to  innocent 
children.  Linnaeus  said  of  the  American  plants : “They 
have  an  aspect  at  once  smooth  and  joyous” ; and  to  my 
mind’s  eye  the  sentence  brings  the  groves  of  young 
sugar  maples  with  smooth  straight  stems  and  the  crown 
of  cool  and  broad-leaved  foliage. 

To  say  truly,  this  is  a somewhat  ungrateful  mood, 
for  in  spite  of  myself  I have  from  time  to  time  been 
struck  by  the  beauty  of  color  in  these  Georgia  pines,  and 
by  the  charm  of  the  winter  skies.  The  sandy  soil,  too, 
allows  a lovely  blueness  in  shadows.  It  is  generally  a 
mistake  to  condemn — to  condemn  Nature,  always  so;  it 
is  simply  a way  of  giving  expression  to  one’s  limitations. 
But  I do  not  think  it  is  Nature  I find  fault  with;  it  is 
rather  with  man — the  deplorable  mess  he  has  made  of 
this  country. 

You  may  suppose  I have  not  seen  many  birds,  only 
two  that  are  properly  natives:  the  Carolina  chickadee, 
just  as  saucy  as  ours  but  not  so  pretty,  lacking  the  buff 
tinge  on  the  breast  and  sides — a slimmer  bird — and  the 
Carolina  wren,  which  haunts  around  these  buildings 
though  said  to  be  a shy  species.  We  hear  its  notes  (as 
described  by  Chapman)  frequently  in  the  wood.  The 
cardinal,  jay,  thrasher,  bluebird,  flicker,  crow,  phoebe, 
and  a flock  of  wagtails  (new  to  me)  comprise  the  whole; 
strangely  enough,  I have  not  seen  either  robin  or  mock- 


3°8 


STOWE  NOTES 


ingbird,  and  I have  never  been  near  enough  to  sparrows 
or  warblers  to  identify  them.  Yet  even  if  I had  been 
able  to  make  some  observations,  I doubt  if  I should  have 
been  animated  to  do  so.  What  are  the  winter  birds  of 
the  South?  The  shadow,  in  a sense,  but  more  properly 
the  substance : it  is  in  coming  North  that  the  soul  is  de- 
veloped. 

The  spring  comes  grudgingly  here.  The  weather  is 
rather  warmer  than  our  June,  more  like  July,  and  yet  one 
must  look  well  for  the  signs  of  spring— the  general 
aspect  is  still  more  that  of  winter.  At  night,  however, 
the  frogs  are  heard,  not  the  crackling  note  of  our  wood 
frogs,  but  a plaintive  piping,  a weak  and  rather  tremu- 
lous call. 

Our  man  brought  in  some  wood  violets  the  other  day — 
a large,  rather  coarse  purple  variety— some  wild  pinks, 
and  twigs  from  two  little  heath-like  shrubs;  one  is  the 
huckleberry  of  this  region,  the  other  (with  waxy  white 
flowers)  he  calls  “sparkleberry.”  The  dangleberry  re- 
sembles it  more  nearly  than  anything  I find  in  my  Gray. 

I am  afraid  I have  not  anything  very  encouraging  to 
say  regarding  literary  attempts.  My  own  efforts  only 
cause  me  to  realize  how  long  and  how  difficult  an  art  it  is — 
how  it  seems  to  make  more  cruel  demands  than  others, 
at  least  than  painting.  It  seems  so  easy;  the  expression 
in  words  is  so  natural;  it  seems  to  demand  so  little 
preliminary  study,  nothing  of  the  training  that  painting 
and  music  require ; but  in  the  end  the  sentence  that  comes 
near  to  satisfy  is  as  hardly  wrought  out  as  any  part  of 
the  surface  of  the  painted  canvas — more  hardly,  perhaps, 
as  the  effort  of  concentration  is  the  greater,  as  there  is 


LETTERS 


309 


no  interesting  mechanical  process  to  hold  the  attention, 
no  palpable  subject,  as  in  painting — in  literature  all’s  in 
the  mind’s  eye. 

I suppose  this  false  impression  arises  from  the  fact 
that  so  many  of  no  great  genius  take  readily  to  pen  and 
ink;  the  fact  is,  of  course,  that  nothing  of  the  same  de- 
gree of  badness  in  form  and  execution  that  most  current 
literature  exhibits  would  be  tolerated  in  any  other  art. 
In  a word,  literature  is  an  art,  exacting,  inexorable — a 
dangerous  thing  to  play  with,  like  fire.  Sometimes  it 
seems  that  if  you  can  see  no  prospect  of  giving  it  the  best 
of  your  energies,  the  most  of  your  time,  you  had  better 
abandon  hope.  But,  really,  I do  not  think  this  view  the 
right  one  to  take.  The  greatest  work  of  art  is,  in  a sense, 
a failure — no  one  save  the  artist  can  know  in  what  de- 
gree ; the  poorest  attempt,  when  inspired  by  real  feeling— 
I mean  when  the  subject  is  known  and  loved  or  deeply 
felt — can  hardly  be  without  some  admirable  quality, 
though  the  work  may  be  too  crude  in  form  or  obscure  in 
expression  to  be  “worth  a Christian's  eye.”  But  it  is  the 
feeling  of  exaltation,  of  spiritual  uplifting,  which  ac- 
companies such  labors  that  is  of  the  first  value ; the  mo- 
ment when  one  seems  to  renew  the  lost  sympathy  with 
Nature— that  is  happiness;  the  freedom,  the  relief  from 
the  miserable  constraints  of  the  world,  surely  a great 
boon. 

How  far  such  occupations  should  be  allowed  to  con- 
flict with  pressing  duties  is  a question  for  the  individual 
conscience,  if  it  is  really  a question  at  all.  In  my  opinion, 
it  skills  nothing  to  puzzle  over  the  matter:  people  will 
express  their  natures  whether  or  no,  and  the  will  can  do 


3io 


STOWE  NOTES 


no  more  than  modify  or  intensify  action;  like  the  lever 
of  the  steam  engine,  it  governs  the  speed,  but  the  lines 
are  laid  beforehand  in  some  unalterable  direction. 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Bainbridge,  March  9,  1896. 

You  need  not  read  this  letter  unless  you  find  that  it 
does  not  bore  you.  'Tis  about  the  books  you  have  sent 
me ; and  I write  it  partly  because  I have  nothing  else  to 
do,  and  partly  because  I am  cross  with  most  modern  in- 
ventions and  it  is  a kind  of  satisfaction  to  say  so  at  some 
length. 

Henry  James's  story,*  although,  in  my  opinion,  not 
very  successful,  is  a good  story,  but  too  slight  for  its 
bulk.  That  is  the  fault  of  his  style  and  the  danger  of 
being  so  glib ; he  tells  his  story  in  too  many  words.  He 
may  have  reflected  that  something  more  sprightly  than 
his  usual  manner  was  required— at  least  I so  conjec- 
tured; it  seemed  to  me  very  trippingly  told — at  a quick- 
step, which,  somehow,  did  not  contrive  to  shorten  the 
distance.  Why  not  finish  at  the  climax  ? Why  spoil  the 
effect  with  still  more  words?  It  is  told,  however,  with 
great  authority ; it  is  a pleasure  to  read  a man  so  sure  of 
his  language. 

This  “Red  Badge  of  Courage"— have  you  read  it? 
Is  it  the  modern  form  of  story?  Is  it  really  what  we  are 
coming  to?  For  my  part,  I cannot  take  it  seriously;  do 


Glasses,”  in  the  “Atlantic. 


LETTERS 


3ii 

you  happen  to  know  how  it  is  regarded  by  others  ? Who 
is  Mr.  Stephen  Crane — is  he  a warrior  in  his  own  per- 
son, or  is  it  all  the  power  of  imagination?  To  have 
fought  in  the  war  he  describes,  he  must  be  at  least  fifty 
years  old;  and  fifty  years  has  quite  another  form  of  ex- 
pressing itself. 

There  is  something  fresh  in  Owen  Wister’s  book;  it’s 
the  old  story  of  Western  adventure,  but  told  with  much 
more  truth  and  less  sentimentality  than  ever  before,  so  it 
seems  to  me.  The  stories  vary  very  much;  “Salvation 
Gap,”  for  instance,  is  the  tiresome,  sentimental,  never 
very  true  kind  of  tale  that  Bret  Harte  told — only  it  has 
not  his  power — but  on  the  whole  the  stories  are  good, 
and  it  is  a pity  the  book  is  defaced  by  Remington’s  ugly 
ill-drawn  illustrations. 

Howells’  “My  Boy”*  is,  on  reflection,  very  much 
what  you  might  expect— a boy  of  much  sensibility  but 
surprisingly  deficient  in  imagination,  with  a very  small 
leaven  of  poetry  in  his  nature. 

The  picture  Howells  draws  is  on  the  whole  a truthful 
one,  I think,  though  it  strikes  me  he  is  not  at  all  times 
sympathetically  in  touch  with  his  subject;  and,  of  course, 
it  is  truth  in  glimpses,  as  he  always  presents  it,  as  if  he 
never  had  the  whole  scene  in  view  at  once,  but  was  look- 
ing through  the  slats  of  the  fence.  But  it  shows  in  some 
degree  how  our  enlightened  American  people  come  to  be 
what  they  are : brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  purely  in- 
dustrial, in  a country  without  traditions,  monuments,  or 
indeed  history,  it  is  not  surprising  that  when  they  have 
developed  fully,  their  accomplished  ambition  is  the  steam 

* In  “A  Boy’s  Town.” 


312 


STOWE  NOTES 


heater,  the  hot  and  cold  water  supply,  and  electric  illumi- 
nation—perhaps,  in  addition,  the  Nineteenth  Century 
Club,  or,  in  another  variation,  a span  of  2:20  trotters. 

Howells  perpetually  harps  on  boys’  failures,  and 
seems  not  to  feel  that  the  successes  are  made  in  the 
imagination,  and  so  outrun  the  little  skill  and  limited 
means  a boy  has  control  of.  Thus  the  desire  is  satiated 
long  before  a tenth  part  of  the  task  they  set  themselves 
is  accomplished.  One  almost  fancies  he  has  forgotten 
his  youth,  though  attempting  to  describe  it,  when  he 
speaks  of  the  circus. 

Do  you  notice  the  crumbs  of  socialistic  doctrine  so 
artfully  strewn  along  the  way?  It  is  just  as  well  that 
youth  swallows  that  kind  of  food  without  tasting. 

He  is  not  much  in  awe  of  childhood ; children’s  fail- 
ures, children’s  fears,  form  the  comical  element  of  the 
work,  repeated  from  chapter  to  chapter  until  it  becomes 
a little  oppressive. 

Last  night  we  had  a crashing  thunder-storm  and  one 
of  those  flooding  rains  for  which  the  region  is  noted. 
To-day  two  ladies  in  a buggy  stopped  to  inquire  if  the 
“creek  was  swimming.”  We  could  give  no  information, 
and  one,  addressing  the  other,  said,  “Well,  suppose  we 
try  it?”  But  the  other  objected,  “We’d  better  pay  some 
one  to  wade  ahead.”  Comical,  was  it  not?— their  idea 
seemingly  being  that  if  the  mercenary  should  drown  they 
would  decide  not  to  cross  the  creek.  They  went  on  to 
confer  with  Major  B.  on  the  chances. 

You  would  like  Major  B.  I have  not  talked  with  him 
much,  but  I should  like  to  do  so;  I guess  from  his  five 
years’  experience  here  that  he  must  have  obtained  much 


LETTERS 


3i3 


interesting  knowledge  of  the  people  and  country.  He 
tells  me  of  Southern  gentlemen,  his  neighbors,  calling 
upon  him  in  the  morning  and  making  protest  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  having  their  horses  put  up ; but  yielding,  they 
linger  on  until  dinner  time.  With  some  reluctance  they 
accept  the  invitation  to  dine.  In  the  midst  of  the  after- 
noon, as  it  seems,  supper  time  surprises  them ; they  con- 
sent to  remain  to  that  meal,  and  finally,  well  after  dark, 
they  mount  and  ride  on  their  way. 

You  should  see  M.  and  me  out  on  our  occasional 
drives ; if  I thought  I could  convey  all  the  oddity  of  the 
spectacle,  I*d  attempt  a little  sketch.  But  picture  to 
yourself  a turnout  so  worn  that  the  running  gear  has  lost 
all  trace  of  its  coat  of  paint,  and  in  its  harness  has  a 
heavy  archaic  character,  as  if  of  native  construction;  it 
is  the  normal  condition  of  the  Georgian  vehicle,  how- 
ever, though  the  hubs  slide  and  jar  on  the  spindles  and  the 
wheels  turn  with  waverings.  Our  horse  is  an  old  blind 
stallion,  wall-eyed,  knee-sprung,  who  trudges  at  a walk 
(our  chosen  pace)  on  unshod  hoofs  that  have  never 
known  cleaner  or  paring  knife ; the  harness  is  russet  with 
age  and  patched  with  pieces  of  twine. 

We  have  had  the  pleasure  of  releasing  no  less  than 
sixteen  bob-whites,  which  were  brought  living  to  us,  hav- 
ing been  caught  in  snares.  We  ransomed  them  and  then 
set  them  at  liberty.  The  last  that  came,  some  five,  were 
free  in  a box — very  timorous,  crowding  together  in  cor- 
ners and  uttering  a low  piping  or  twittering;  since  their 
release  we  have  heard  them  all  day,  calling  to  one  another 
with  a broken  plaintive  note.  The  other  party  of  eleven 
were  secured  by  having  their  legs  tied  tightly  together 


3H 


STOWE  NOTES 


with  strips  of  calico ; they  sat  in  the  bottom  of  a basket 
and  only  moved  their  heads,  watching  us  with  their 
bright  dark  eyes.  They  seemed  to  be  “studdyin’.”  They 
struggled  very  little  when  M.  lifted  them  out  and  with 
scissors  severed  their  bonds,  and  they  went  off  with  less 
show  of  excitement  than  the  last. 

I have  seen  the  brown-headed  nuthatch  and  the 
tufted  titmouse,  both  not  of  our  acquaintance  in  the 
North.  There  are  many  birds  now,  but  my  eyes  are  too 
weak  to  look  against  the  sky  for  them,  and  they  flit 
among  the  budding  tops  of  oaks,  avoiding  the  dead-wood 
of  the  lower  level.  We  hear  the  cardinal  now  very  often ; 
and  after  the  often  repeated  “che-ow,  che-ow,”  follow 
the  most  charmingly  modulated  call  notes,  very  sweet 
and  coaxing. 

How  we  rejoiced  over  your  letter  describing  Robert’s 
happy  reception ! I am  struck  with  surprise  every  now 
and  then  when  I realize  that  I have  never  seen  him  as 
Romeo — I see  him  so  clearly  in  the  mind’s  eye.  It  an- 
swers nothing  to  lament  our  exile;  but  a word  on  this 
subject  would  lead  to  too  many  words. 

TO  JOE  EVANS 

Bainbridge,  April  i,  1896. 

I am  sorry  my  picture  lost  the  prize  (as  usual).  It 
would  seem  as  if  one  might  hardly  be  so  daring  as  to 
make  the  attempt  again.  There  is  a great  finality  about 
the  number  three — see  Father  William:  “I’ve  answered 
three  questions,  and  that  is  enough And  the  Bell  Man: 
“What  I say  three  times  is  true  ” 


LETTERS 


3i5 


You  know,  no  one  was  ever  permitted  more  than 
three  wishes,  and  three  attempts  have  ever  been  the  limit. 
I do  not  see  my  way  to  apply  for  the  prize  again.  How- 
ever, I am  glad  the  picture  is  well  hung. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  HENRY 

Washington,  Conn.,  July  13,  1896. 

What  a summer  of  beauty  this  must  be  at  the  fairest 
of  all  places ! The  lindens  are  in  flower  now,  or  should 
be,  but  perhaps  this  rich  warm  rainy  season  has  pushed 
the  development  of  all  vegetation  somewhat  ahead  of 
time. 

I am  sure  you  have  not  had  a sultry  day,  however  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  may  suifer  from  heat  and  humidity. 

Oh  for  Stowe!  Oh  for  the  North!  Send  me  word 
of  it — every  detail ! 


TO  HIS  SISTER 

Washington,  Conn.,  September,  1896. 
What  a gift  life  was,  not  a right ! 


VERSES 


. 


VERSES 


WINTER’S  ANSWER  TO  MISGIVINGS 

Often  the  heart  that  eager  is 
To  build  its  hope  on  dazzling  height 
Falls  in  the  shadow  of  its  bliss, 

And,  comfortless,  sees  endless  night. 

A sullen  whisper  stirs  anon : 

“ Acknowledge  life  a worthless  boon; 
What  gain  to  cloak  and  smother  care — 
To  smile  at  grief?  Accept  your  doom. 
Why  struggle  still  against  despair  ? 

How  long  resist  the  creeping  gloom  ?” 

As  long  as  crowns  that  hilltop  bare 
The  pine  against  the  azure  sky, 

And  gives  its  music  to  the  air, 

And  waves  its  tasselled  boughs  on  high ; 

As  long  as  shall  the  chickadee 

Flit,  lisping  sweet,  from  tree  to  tree ; 

As  long  as  on  this  slope’s  displayed 
The  sumach’s  dauntless  red  cockade. 


319 


320 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  

“See !”  cried  that  voice  of  love 

That  never  claimed  my  ear  with  aught  but  kind  intent, 
“See,  in  the  west,  those  tiny  clouds  above 
The  crescent  moon,  where  rose  and  azure  blent 
Hang  on  the  setting  sun !”  Alas  that  I, 

Vexed  with  the  ills  of  life,  whose  sombre  side 

O’erdarkened  petty  pleasures,  stubbornly 

Bent  on  defiance,  in  a sullen  pride 

Answered : “I  cannot  now  attend.”  The  voice  was  still. 

Then,  at  her  humble  silence,  spoke  my  heart. 

I rose,  and  slowly,  with  an  altered  will, 

Moved  to  the  window— but  the  sky  was  cold: 

That  ardent  glow  was  shrunk  and  paled  away, 

Those  floating  clouds  were  comfortless  of  light, 
Stretching  across  the  sky  a veil  of  gray, 

Cold  on  the  coming  of  the  autumn  night. 


TO  

I think  you  are  pure-minded, 

And  gentle  and  pitiful, 

And  wise  and  vain  and  foolish, 

Full  of  little  fears  and  great  hopes, 
As  good  women  are. 


VERSES 


321 


TO  THE  LUNA  MOTH 

Pale  wanderer  of  the  summer  night ! 

My  candle’s  feeble  ray  of  light, 

Sped  out  upon  the  empty  dark 
(To  thee  a lost  Promethean  spark), 

Hath  touched  the  circle  of  thy  flight ; 

And  wondrous,  shining  pale  and  far, 

A beacon  flame  to  lure  thee  hence, 

It  dawns  upon  thy  innocence — 

The  glory  of  a fallen  star. 

Poor  moth ! On  thee  the  waking  Spring 
Shall  never  lift  her  laughing  eyes : 

So  swift,  so  soon,  a chill  surprise, 

Comes  Death  to  close  thy  azure  wing. 

Yet  do  I pity  overmuch 
Thy  sudden  end,  who  day  by  day 
Must  see  the  Summer  waste  away 
And  feel  the  Winter’s  iron  clutch? 

Too  strange  is  life,  too  swiftly  spent, 

Too  swift  for  joy,  too  strange  for  sorrow; 
I have  no  leisure  to  lament 
Thee,  dead  to-day,  who  die  to-morrow. 
The  sigh  I breathe  were  wasted  breath 
That  mourns  thy  fate  and  weeps  not  ours, 
For  in  the  final  grasp  of  Death 
My  years  shall  be  as  thy  short  hours. 


322 


STOWE  NOTES 


So  might  it  seem  less  loss  than  gain 
To  touch  the  limit  of  delight 
And  know  the  utmost  bounds  of  pain 
And  vanish  in  a summer  night. 

Outside,  the  winds  are  stealing  by, 

Faint  with  the  breath  of  drowsing  flowers, 
From  meadows  open  to  the  sky, 

From  moonlit  slopes  and  sylvan  towers, 
From  woody  dells  remote  and  deep, 
Where,  in  the  silence  and  the  gloom, 
Spring  violets ; or  laden  come 
From  beds  where  purple  pansies  sleep— 
Short,  sweet,  and  happy  night  of  June ! 

A wandering  gleam,  the  river  threads 
A way  among  the  fields,  and  spreads 
Its  silver  shallows  in  the  moon ; 

And  imaged  in  the  glassy  pond 
Are  bank  and  bush  and  grove  beyond ; 
And  in  the  depths  profounder  dwells 
A sunken  planet,  bright  and  large. 

The  frogs,  like  drowsy  sentinels, 

Among  the  rushes  on  the  marge 
A hoarse  and  sullen  watchword  pass. 

The  dew  lies  sparkling  in  the  grass. 
Night-loving  things  are  all  astir: 

The  wings  of  owls  and  bats  are  spread, 

And  from  her  net  of  gossamer 

The  nimble  spider  weaves  her  thread, 

And  thou,  with  downy  wings  unfurled, 
Dost  roam,  Queen  of  the  waking  world ! 


VERSES 


323 


Out  of  the  mystery  of  night 

Thou  com'st  to  me  with  wavering  flight, 

Unerring  in  thy  shining  quest, 

Bold-hearted  as  a looked-for  guest  . . . 
Strange  silent  thing!  Thy  fragile  wings 
Bear  greetings  from  another  land: 

There  dwells  within  thy  dreaming  eyes 
The  memory  of  Paradise. 

The  light  of  early  morning  brings, 

Aloft  on  gaily  painted  wings, 

Thy  prototype  of  sunny  air, 

Frail  emblem  of  the  soul,  as  bright 
As  rainbow  hues,  as  changing  fair  . . . 

But  on  the  dusky  edge  of  night 
Thou  hoverest,  like  a guilty  sprite, 

Unseen  until  the  day  is  done. 

Perchance  thou  art  the  soul  of  one 
Too  new  to  heaven  to  forget 
The  living  bonds  of  earth.  I think 
Thou  art  a spirit ; one  that  met 
No  friend  upon  the  further  brink, 

And  earthward,  on  the  night  wind's  breath. 
Art  borne  along  the  gleaming  skies, 

Sad  exile  in  the  gates  of  Death ! 

That  crossed  the  threshold  full  of  pain, 
With  outstretched  arms  and  longing  eyes 
And  heart  that  yearned  to  earth  again ; 
Whose  pleading  lips  are  shut  and  dumb, 
Whose  lease  of  life  is  sadly  sped: 

In  such  pale  semblance  might  they  come, 
The  souls  of  all  the  lonely  dead. 


324 


STOWE  NOTES 


TO  THE  WOOD  THRUSH 

Often  along  a mossy  road 

That  keeps  the  secret  of  my  tread, 

I walked  at  evening ; gently  flowed 
The  summer  air,  and  overhead 

The  golden  tide  of  evening  ebbed, 

And,  white  upon  the  soft  expanse, 

The  limpid  ether,  silver-webbed, 

I saw  the  moon’s  pale  countenance. 

Then  sometimes  on  the  silence  stirred 
The  cricket’s  slight  and  shrilly  cry ; 

The  sounds  of  evening,  vaguely  heard, 

Are  blent  and  faint  along  the  sky; 

While  with  a saddened  cadence  fall 
From  fields  afar  and  twilight  dells, 

The  low  of  cows,  the  driver’s  call, 

The  lessened  beat  of  distant  bells. 

Where  silence  broods,  where  shade  abounds, 
I oft  in  expectation  stood, 

And  heard  the  first  melodious  sounds 
Wake  in  the  arches  of  the  wood; 


VERSES 


325 


And  from  the  depth  and  gathered  night 
Of  maple  boughs  and  hooded  beech 
I marked  with  still  and  strange  delight 
The  woodland  genius  finding  speech. 

No  torrent  of  impassioned  song, 

But,  like  some  lone  and  hidden  rill, 

The  sylvan  music  glides  along 

And  chimes  aloud,  and  then  is  still. 

A magic  holds  the  listening  ear : 

Breathless  I wait,  and  know  no  choice, 
Dumb  as  the  rocks,  intent  to  hear 
Once  more  that  airy  elfin  voice. 


326 


STOWE  NOTES 


THE  BLUE  HERON 

He  raised  the  rifle,  steely  bright ; 

He  took  good  aim,  the  trigger  drew ; 

And,  reeling  in  its  happy  flight, 

Fluttered  and  fell  the  heron  blue. 

“He’s  hit;  he’s  staggered;  see  him  swing 
In  a wide  circle  down  the  air ! 

See  how  he  settles,  light  of  wing, 

On  the  lake’s  bosom  smooth  and  bare !” 

Grouped  on  the  forest’s  margin,  by 
A placid  lake  that  mirrored  all, 

With  upturned  gaze  and  anxious  eye 
They  watched  the  heron  float  and  fall. 

They  saw  the  glittering  sunlight  shed 
On  quivering  leaves,  and  heard  the  speed 

And  music  of  the  wind,  and  said : 

“ Alas,  this  is  an  evil  deed !” 

Methinks  a vengeance  should  pursue 
That  rude  soul  to  the  brink  of  death 

Whose  cruel  hand  for  pleasure  slew, 

Who  stopped  a free  and  happy  breath. 


VERSES 


327 


For  him  the  wind  should  bear  a sigh 
Where'er  it  stirs ; the  wood  and  shore 
Seem  empty  as  the  empty  sky, 

With  sense  of  loss  for  evermore; 

The  sparkling  light  seem  bleak  and  cold ; 

The  wavelets  sob  on  sand  and  stone ; 
And  ever  should  the  silence  hold 
An  echo  for  his  ear  alone. 


328 


STOWE  NOTES 


THE  SONG  SPARROW 

The  dawn  rose  slowly,  pale  and  bleak ; 

The  morning  air  struck  raw  and  chill ; 
And,  pied  in  many  a patch  and  streak, 

The  snow  still  glimmered  on  the  hill. 

Gray  clouds  along  the  mountains  crept ; 

Frost-whitened  all  the  garden  lay; 

And  slow  and  silent  tears  bewept 
Softly  the  cheerless  birth  of  day. 

The  earth  lay  wrapped  in  chill  distress ; 

The  promised  spring  seemed  all  remote 
When  suddenly  the  silentness 

Was  broken  by  a bird’s  clear  note. 

Song  of  a daring  heart  serene ! 

Into  the  dusk  I peered  in  vain, 

Though  all  the  dumb  and  dreary  scene 
Was  thrilling  with  the  valiant  strain. 

But  to  my  mental  view  arose 

The  modest  singer,  brown  of  coat, 
Perched  in  that  all-enraptured  pose, 

The  lifted  bill,  the  quivering  throat. 


VERSES 


329 


Symbol  of  Hope— the  earliest  borne 

On  dauntless  wings  these  snows  among — 
Sweet  in  the  sullen  face  of  dawn 
Arose  the  silvery  flight  of  song ! 


THE  WOOD  THRUSH 

(fragment) 

Hark ! From  those  frail  and  trembling  throats 
Hid  in  the  leafy  haunts  above, 

A low  and  liquid  murmur  floats 
Out  of  the  hushed  and  listening  grove. 

It  faints ; a peal  of  fairy  bells 
Rings  on  the  silence  deep  and  tense; 

The  sudden  music  lapses,  swells, 

Fails  with  a sweet  inconsequence. 

So  die  the  twittering  notes  away, 

And  in  the  holy  calm  and  hush 
Falls  sweet  the  latest  voice  of  day, 

The  utterance  of  the  hidden  thrush. 


330 


STOWE  NOTES 


FRAGMENT  FROM  “THE  VOYAGEUR” 

(The  wind  is  supposed  suddenly  to  begin  blowing,  bringing  the 
sound  of  water  from  the  lake.) 

But  hark ! The  ripple  of  the  rising  wind 
Runs  in  the  tree-tops,  and  the  whisper  stirs, 
Through  rustling  birches  and  the  soughing  firs, 
Deep  in  my  heart  a longing  undefined ; 

And  faintly  clashing,  o’er  the  hushing  trees 
Whose  secret  shudders  through  the  listening  night, 
A distant  music  rings,  so  faint,  so  light, 

It  climbs  and  hovers  on  the  flying  breeze. 

Where  swims  the  lily,  tiny  wavelets  comb, 

And  in  the  rushes  flash  a rim  of  foam ; 

The  underlying  shore  and  mirrored  night 
Are  rent  and  shattered,  and  a broken  light 
Dances  o’er  shadowy  deeps  where  dwelt  the  moon ; 
The  shallows  with  a golden  rain  are  strewn, 

And  echo  fills  the  cove  with  blithe  alarms 
Like  plaudits  faintly  struck  from  fairy  palms. 

The  sleeping  spirit  of  the  Northern  lakes, 

The  fair  dread  siren,  shivers  and  awakes. 


VERSES 


33i 


SPIRITS 

From  lily-beds  and  osiers  damp 
Breathes  cool  the  odorous  air  of  spring; 
The  little  stars  in  heaven  lamp 
My  blithe  and  lonely  wandering. 

Lone,  still  alone,  in  happy  mood 
I hover  near,  and  far  away, 

In  the  sweet,  short  nights  of  May, 

From  the  white  lakes,  from  the  wood, 
Spirits  gather : elf  and  fay 
Fain  would  fly,  but  hover  near, 

Half  in  awe  and  half  in  fear. 

Oh,  the  circle  of  their  round, 

Where,  with  neither  sign  nor  sound, 

The  dancers  mingle,  touch  and  glance, 
Circling  on  the  haunted  ground, 

Clasp,  dissever,  skip  and  bound 
Breathless  in  a shadow  dance! 

Spectral  mute  and  filmy  rout, 

Shade  and  starlight  in  and  out, 

What  are  these  that  float  so  light, 

Alien  to  the  woodland  sprite, 

Free  as  air  and  free  of  night? 

Lo ! the  merry  ghosts  are  these, 

Dancing,  dumb  diaphanies, 

Spirits  that  are  haply  free 
From  all  mortal  misery. 


332 


STOWE  NOTES 


Soon  the  morning  star's  pale  shine, 
Dawning  on  their  measures  fleet, 

In  the  gloom  of  yonder  pine 
Mocks  the  gleam  of  ghostly  feet 


WINTER  SUNSET 

Where  the  wind  sighs,  so  softly,  so  wearily, 
In  the  dark  hemlock-tops  stirring  so  drearily, 
Where  the  red  light 
Darkens  to  night, 

And  there’s  intense 
Cold  and  suspense, 

There  is  the  spirit  that  whispers  one  cheerily. 


VERSES 


333 


The  western  wind  has  lightly  stirred 
The  bending  grasses  on  the  mead; 

And  in  the  longing  leaves  }tis  heard 
T o pass  with  rush  of  joyous  speed . 

The  robins  loud  their  songs  repeat, 

And  from  the  denser  dim  retreat 

The  hermit's  note  comes  faint  and  sweet — 

The  silver  bell,  the  lisp  and  sigh ; 

And  that  wild  spirit,  strange  and  shy, 

The  mocking  veery,  makes  reply. 

It  seems  so  short  a time  ago 

This  forest  floor,  where  flowers  blow, 

Was  deep  in  folds  of  silent  snow. 

Yet  many  forms  of  life  are  sped 
That  saw  the  spring  sky  overhead ; 

And  many  an  eager  hope  is  dead. 

Where  are  the  flowers  of  early  spring? 
For  not  to  them  the  thrushes  sing; 

To  them  no  breeze  is  whispering. 

Spring-beauty  touched  with  rosy  hue, 
Goldthread  silver-tipped  with  dew, 
Wind-flowers,  and  the  violet  blue, 


334 


STOWE  NOTES 


To  whom  the  earliest  love  is  told, 

Are  graved  amid  the  withered  mould : 
For  them  the  early  year  is  old. 


THE  SECOND  BIRTH 

Cold  is  the  hand  of  Death, 

Icy  his  breath, 

Gentle  his  touch  as  the  fall  of  the  snow ; 
And  as  the  cold  snows  keep 
In  an  unbroken  sleep 

Life  for  a second  birth,  does  not  Death  so? 


VERSES 


335 


THE  NORTH  COUNTRIE 

First  trembling  star  that  meets  the  eye, 
'Twas  never  yet  so  fair  to  see 

As  when  it  climbs  the  rose-pale  sky — 

The  chill  sky  of  the  North  Countrie. 

No  wind  so  constant,  pure,  and  free 
As  that  which  flows  so  coldly  forth, 

Whose  rest  is  on  the  snowy  sea, 

The  frozen  bosom  of  the  North. 

The  dark  spruce  bends  and  breathes  a sigh 
Half  yearning,  half  of  weary  plaint; 

And  shining  wings  go  rustling  by, 

And  sweet  notes  falter,  wild  and  faint. 

Oh,  but  to  taste  the  icy  wine ! 

To  see  the  snow-wreaths  driving  white; 

The  jewel  morning,  dusk  and  shine, 

The  sapphire  eve,  the  opal  night ! 

Ah,  starry  fane,  pale  splendors  traced 
O'er  gleaming  fields  and  hoary  heights ! 

The  silence  of  the  wintry  waste, 

The  dances  of  the  Northern  Lights ! 


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